


Four and Twenty Blackbirds

by A_Farnese



Series: Penumbra [16]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Caring Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), F/M, Merlin & Arthur Pendragon Friendship (Merlin), Sick Merlin (Merlin), The Old Religion (Merlin), The triple goddess - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 75,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Farnese/pseuds/A_Farnese
Summary: It's been a long winter for everyone, and the hope that spring will bring healing is the only thing keeping spirits up. But the changing season only brings new problems like illness, injury, and a crisis of faith. And even as the Saxon shadow begins to fall over Camelot, Arthur finds himself facing the possibility of civil war.
Relationships: Gwaine/Linnet, Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Niniane
Series: Penumbra [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/180518
Comments: 35
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 'Merlin' and its characters are not mine. No money is being made from this.

Arthur Pendragon woke in darkness, shivering at the rattle of snow and ice against the windows. Though a king’s chambers were always warm, the room felt cold, as though the rime of frost on the glass had leeched away all the warmth. Or perhaps it had followed Guinevere to the queen’s chambers and rested with her, leaving Arthur to a lonely bed.

He pulled the blankets to his chin and sighed, doing his best to ignore the sound of the snow skittering against the glass. Though the days were lengthening, winter had yet to release its grasp on the kingdom of Camelot. Outside the city walls, some drifts were taller than horses, while streets in the lower town were more ice than path. After a few months of enforced company, even the winding halls and echoing chambers of the castle felt close and confining. Everyone from the king down to the man who cleaned the privies longed for a release from the close quarters. One could only stare at the same faces for so long before even a beloved one grew tiresome. And while Arthur would have found Guinevere’s company comforting, she preferred to sleep in her separate chambers for now. Not because she was tired of seeing Arthur, she had assured him, but because of womanly matters. He had not asked for further explanation.

So he lay awake, alone and unsettled, and wished himself back to sleep.

An hour or more passed while he stared up at the darkness until he decided that sleep would not return. Arthur summoned his courage and pushed the covers away. Shivering, he dressed and slipped out of his room. A long walk through the hallways might tire him enough to return to bed and sleep a while before the day’s duties summoned him.

In the hours before dawn, only the guards of the night watch were about, and they were as quiet as mice in their duties. Mostly they nodded with drowsiness and conversed softly when they spoke at all. The darkness weighed on everyone, urging the wakeful to maintain their silence until the sun rose. Arthur felt it, too, and could not bring himself to blame them for their inattentiveness. With only a waning crescent moon on a late winter’s night, a man would have to be mad to attempt any mischief.

Besides, he had seen drowsy guards snap into action at a moment’s notice before. They were not lax in their duties. Castigating them for being tired at night would be as useless as shouting at the wind. Darkness was not a man’s natural milieu, after all.

Unless…

Arthur smiled when he saw the thin figure by the window at the far end of the hall. What Merlin was looking for, he could not guess. That window had been coated with ice since the beginning of winter and showed nothing but wavering patterns of color when the morning light shone through it. Or perhaps the view was not a factor at all. Arthur had come upon the sorcerer standing at that window so often, his gaze-- blinded or sighted-- fixed upon the panes that he had taken to calling it ‘Merlin’s window’.

“Are you waiting for something?” Arthur asked when he reached Merlin’s side.

“I couldn’t sleep,” was the sorcerer’s soft reply. His head tilted as though he were listening for something.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No. I needed to think.”

“And the hallway is the best place for thinking?” Arthur asked.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Merlin said archly, though he didn’t look away from the window.

Arthur chuckled. “You have me there. I couldn’t sleep, either.”

“Gwen will be back in your chambers in a few days. This will pass,” Merlin said.

“I know. Doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

“I daresay she enjoys it less than you do. Although as squeamish as you get about it I sometimes wonder.” Merlin gave him a sidelong glance. “She has her courses again, that’s all. For a woman, it’s as natural as breathing. It’s part of the rhythm of her life.”

“It’s disturbing when your wife starts bleeding for no reason.” Arthur kept his stance relaxed the way he did before a battle. It was strange enough when Guinevere spoke of such matters. Hearing it from Merlin was disturbing, though the sorcerer didn’t seem bothered by it. He had been raised by a woman, though, while Arthur had grown up in the company of men.

Merlin laughed softly. “Arthur Pendragon, the greatest warrior of his age, made squeamish by a bit of blood.”

Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes, but cast a glance up the hallway to ensure none of the guards had heard the quiet comment. “I’m not squeamish. It upsets her.”

“She wants a child,” Merlin said, serious again.

“I know,” Arthur said. If the royal nursery was empty, it wasn’t for lack of trying on their part. But they had been married less than a year. These things didn’t always happen immediately. “We’re both young. There’s plenty of time for children.”

Merlin made a non-committal sound and looked back at the window.

Sudden cold fear knotted Arthur’s gut. “Is there something I should know about?” he asked sharply.

“I don’t know. No,” Merlin said, looking down. His gloved fingers curled on the stone ledge. “I had a dream earlier. And in that dream, there was a warning. But I don’t know who it was about, or what it was for. Just that she was trying to warn me.”

Arthur put his back to the wall as though he could ward away whatever evil Merlin’s vision portended. He glanced down the hallway in time to see a candle gutter in its sconce. He shivered. “I wish your gods were more forthcoming with their information. If they’re going to warn you, they should make it clear what they’re talking about.” He tried to keep his voice light.

“We’re meant to walk on our own two feet, not count on the gods to do everything for us,” Merlin said. “If they even sent the warning at all. She’s not their messenger,” he finished, his voice falling so low Arthur almost couldn’t hear it.

“She? I thought you didn’t remember the dream.”

“I don’t. All I remember is her voice and that she was warning me of something. She should be at peace, though. I don’t understand why it was her.” Merlin shook his head and lapsed into silence.

Arthur let him be. He could not provide a reason for any of Merlin’s strange visions, and if his gods chose to use the dead-- Merlin’s mother, presumably-- to pass along cryptic warnings, what could he say to that? Only that it was uncanny at best, devilish at worst, and that he would never admit to either thought. “Is this one of those things you’ll only figure out when the time comes?”

“It must be, or I would have a better sense of the thing,” Merlin said. Then the corners of his lips turned upward and he huffed a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow at the sorcerer’s sudden humor.

“Nothing. It’s just that a few years ago we wouldn’t have been able to have this conversation. And here you are, discussing magic like its commonplace.”

“Isn’t it, though? A commonplace thing? You’ve told me magic is in all living things. That it’s in the earth and the mountains, and for all I know it makes the rain fall and the wind blow.”

“It doesn’t make the wind blow,” Merlin said, the smile lingering a moment on his lips before fading away. He took a breath like he was about to speak again, then paused. He tilted his head, his gaze returning to the window, or looking beyond it, as though he were listening for something far away and beyond mere mortal hearing.

Then Arthur heard it, too: The faint, clear ringing of a church bell.

A little church was one of the first buildings to rise after last autumn’s fire, the old wooden structure had been demolished by the flames, though the belltower had survived. Some called it a miracle of God, but if it was, He had been working through a strange servant when Merlin summoned the wind and rain that ended the fire. But who was Arthur to say? He was a king over men, not a tool of fate or gods. All he knew was that his city had been gutted by fire and that Merlin’s magic had helped to stop it.

“Why are they ringing it now? It seems early,” Arthur said.

“It calls the monks to Vigils. They rise at night to pray and sing. I’ve always wondered why they torment themselves, but the ritual seems to make them happy,” Merlin said.

“What, do you join them now and then? I never pictured you setting foot into a church of your own accord,” Arthur said wryly.

“No, I’ve never darkened their doorstep. Father Gildas wouldn't appreciate it. He has enough to do keeping his brother monks in line. The last thing he needs is the Great Pagan coming in to ruffle his feathers,” Merlin said.

The mention of feathers made Arthur think of the dour monk as a hen running about a farmyard, keeping a brood of unruly chicks in line. He laughed, clapping a hand over his mouth before it could echo down the hall. “I think that man could do with a few ruffled feathers now and then,” he said once he’d regained control of himself.

Merlin raised an eyebrow at him, then shrugged. “I’m not here to convert anyone, but Gildas would never believe it. He assumes I want nothing more than a return to the old ways.”

“I thought you of all people would want that,” Arthur said.

“There’s a reason they’re called ‘old ways’ or ‘the Old Religion’, and not ‘the way things are’. Old customs fade and are replaced by new ones. Old beliefs die out as new religions spring up. The world changes. Beliefs change with it. That’s the way of things.” Merlin was silent for a while. Arthur sensed that he was gathering his thoughts and held his tongue. “Your father didn’t need to begin the Purge to make the Old Religion die out. It was already fading, it just didn’t know it yet. Every year, there are fewer and fewer of us. The Purge simply hastened the end.”

“What happens when it dies?”

“Nothing is ever truly gone forever. Some parts of it will always be there. Maybe not in a way we’ll recognize, but some pieces will always remain. But the new faith-- your faith-- will overcome mine, in the end. It may be that my gods will be changed forever, unrecognizable to anyone alive now.” 

Arthur turned to face his friend. Merlin was staring down at his gloved hands. He was dressed in gray and black, and shadows clung to him like cobwebs, wreathing even his eyes in darkness so only the pale skin of his face shone, ghostlike in the darkness. Arthur shivered. “You have a lot on your mind.”

“I usually do in the night.” Merlin finally turned to look up at him. In the torchlight, his eyes looked silvery and strange. Wasn’t there a legend about people with silver eyes? Something about seeing the wind? He shivered and changed the subject.

“You should try to get some sleep. You’re always telling me to rest more.”

Merlin smiled faintly. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander?”

“I wouldn't put it like that. But you haven’t been well lately, and Gaius says we should all be resting more,” Arthur said. “God knows I’d rather be asleep right now.”

“You don’t have to ask God for something as simple as that.” Merlin pulled off one of his gloves. He tilted his head, silently asking a question that Arthur was only too happy to agree to. Years of friendship had its advantages.

Merlin’s fingertips were cool against Arthur’s forehead, brushing the skin between his eyes long enough to impart some spell, some effort of will that sent a wave of fatigue over Arthur. Physical weariness to match a spiritual weariness. He would sleep soundly now.

“You should try to sleep, too,” Arthur said as he fought a yawn. “I know a physician who says that sleep is good for you.”

The noise Merlin made could have been a laugh or a sob. “I’ve heard something like that. You should go before you fall on your face.” He rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gently pushed him in the direction of the royal chambers. Yawning, Arthur complied, casting a final glance at Merlin before turning away. The sorcerer seemed to have receded farther into the darkness, fading away with every step Arthur took. By the time he reached his chambers, it seemed as though the night’s encounter had been nothing more than a distant dream.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


“Sire?” 

George’s voice woke Arthur from a heavy, comfortable slumber. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, half-expecting to be wearing the clothes he’d donned for that odd conversation with Merlin but instead, he wore a nightshirt and soft trousers, and his eyes were crusty with sleep. 

“Sire?” George said again. His voice was tense, and there came a rustling at the bed curtains.

“I’m awake, George. What is it?”

“A messenger, Sire. He says he’ll only speak with you.”

Arthur rubbed his eyes and raked a hand through his hair. “Who is he? Where is he from?”

George’s voice was quieter, though no less tense for it. “He says his name is Bert. He’s one of Sir Leon’s men, Sire. Who went to Tintagel.”

“Tintagel!” Arthur yanked the bed curtains aside and staggered out of bed, ignoring the chill in the air. “When did he arrive? This morning? Or did he come into the city last night, and no one bothered to inform me until now?”

George flinched as he handed Arthur a set of suitable clothes. “He came in the castle’s postern gate not half an hour ago, Sire. His hair and clothing were still covered in snow. The guards brought him to one of the smaller audience chambers. He was dripping all over the floor.” Disapproval colored the finicky servant’s voice. “Merlin was looking after him when I came to wake you, Sire. Gaius is unwell this morning. His arthritis--”

“Yes, thank you, George.” Arthur pulled the formal clothing on and beckoned for the servant to fasten and tie off the fiddly bits he could not reach himself. “Has the privy council been summoned?”

“No, Sire. The man says he will only speak with you or the queen.”

“Has Guinevere been summoned, then?”

“Yes, Sire.” 

“It’s good to know I’m the last one to know what’s going on in my castle,” He grumbled, running a hand through his hair before striding downstairs with George hurrying in his wake. 

A fire was roaring in the hearth when Arthur arrived in the audience chamber. Old Bert hunched in a chair near the fire. He had dried out enough that he no longer dripped, but his grizzled hair hung in damp strands around his face and mud was beginning to harden and crack on his clothes. Merlin knelt next to him and was rubbing some sort of salve into the old man’s hands, which had curled into claws from age, cold, and the effort of riding through the harsh winter weather. Still, he rose when he saw Arthur and dropped to a knee. “Majesty,” he rasped. 

“There’s no need for that, Bert.” It was hard to reconcile the aging man before him with his memory of the dark-haired horse master who hadn’t feared to tan a ten-year-old prince’s hide when the said prince had pushed his horse too fast after heavy rain. “Sit down. Have you had something to drink?”

“I’ve called for refreshments. They’ll be here shortly,” Guinevere said. She’d stood so quietly to one side that Arthur had hardly noticed her presence. She was calm and queenly in her deep blue gown. Her tightly folded hands and drawn features betrayed her fear, though. They’d had no word from Elyan or Leon for weeks. Arthur had blamed it on the endless snowstorms preventing messengers-- either man or bird-- from making the long journey from Tintagel, and Merlin had not contradicted him. The sorcerer’s spells had shown only that the two knights and all the other spies Arthur had stuffed into Pynell’s entourage were all alive. Of their plans, they had heard nothing. 

“We can wait that long for your news, Bert,” Arthur said.

“Thank you, Sire,” Bert rasped, clearing his throat and coughing. Merlin put a gloved hand to the old man’s elbow to help him stand, and they all ignored the cracking of Bert’s knees as he settled back into the chair. Arthur gave Merlin a questioning look, and the sorcerer nodded. Bert was well enough, merely beset by the infirmities of age and travel. “Is anyone looking after my mules? The roads were harder on them than they were on me.”

“The master of the royal stables is looking after them. They will be well-cared for,” Merlin assured him before taking a step away from Bert and the fire. 

Guinevere answered the soft knocking at the door and returned with a tray laden with mulled wine which she quickly served, offering the first cup to Bert. 

“Thank you, Majesty,” he said. He took a long draught of his wine and wet his lips. “It's a hard journey from Tintagel, but M’Lord Leon couldn’t think of another way to deliver his message, seeing as how Lord Pynell ordered his men to shoot any bird that came near the walls. They couldn’t think of anyone better to send ahead of them. I guess they figured Lord Pynell wouldn’t miss a lowly servant.” 

“Likely not. Pynell’s too obsessed with titles to think much of a lowly servant,” Arthur said. He ignored Merlin’s smirk. It hadn’t been so long ago that Arthur himself had been too impressed by rank to think of befriending one servant and marrying another. “But what is the message you’ve brought?”

“A letter from Sir Elyan to Her Majesty, for one.” Bert dug into the courier pouch at his side and pulled out a battered letter still sealed with a clump of pale wax. Guinevere practically snatched it from him and retreated a few steps to read its contents. “M’Lord Leon didn’t entrust his message to paper. He feared I might be captured on the way here. He didn’t want Lord Pynell finding out what he knew.”

“And that is…?” Arthur banished the impatience from his voice. 

“That M’Lord Leon has a man from Lord Pynell’s camp willing to testify against ‘im. The man’s been part of Pynell’s councils for years. He, that is, Pynell trusts him and has heard everything Pynell’s planned.”

“Who is this man? What are Pynell’s plans?” Arthur asked. His heart was beating furiously as the thought of finally knowing what this snake of a lord was planning.

“They wouldn’t tell me, Sire. In case I was captured,” Bert said. He took another long drink of his wine. “They sent me ahead. They were planning to ride out with their witness three days after I left. It took me eight days to get here, thanks to the snow. They’ll be moving slower on account of greater numbers and dealing with horses in the mud. They’re likely still a week away. M’Lord Leon hoped you could send riders to meet them, in case Lord Pynell caught wind of what they were planning and sent men of his own.” 

“Of course,” Arthur said absently, already pondering who he might send to meet Leon and Elyan while trying to figure out who the mysterious witness might be. 

“Did they say anything else?” Guinevere asked. “Elyan’s letter only says that he is well, that the men are well, and that rumor has it that Tintagel is haunted.” Her voice was tight, the letter clenched in her hand.

“Aye, they say the castle is haunted. And for good reason. ‘Twas a struggle to take it from the Lady Morgana’s forces, what with their magic and all. And the stories say her mother, Lady Vivian, was a priestess of the Old Religion like her daughter.” Bert gave Merlin a quick, sidelong glance. “We’d hear strange noises in the night and see odd shadows. Crows’d settle on the ramparts and the parapets and stare at us, not makin’ a sound. It was damned eerie. If we hadn’t been snowed in ‘til a fortnight ago, we’d have been dealing with deserters, the men were that unsettled.”

Bert paused to finish his wine. “There’s other news, too. Once the weather cleared a fortnight back, Lord Caradoc received word that Saxon longships’d been spotted downriver from his lands. Rumor has it there's an army building in Rheged, and Lord Caradoc suspects the Saxons will raid our border towns come spring. Lord Pynell has been speaking out against Master Merlin here, and thanks to those uncanny goings-on in Tintagel, more of the men are listening. Even some of M’Lord Leon’s boys are. The rumor’s been that Master Merlin’s in league with the Lady Morgana, and that he’s, erm…” Bert trailed off and cast nervous glances at Merlin, then Guinevere before dropping his gaze to the cup in his hands.

“What is this rumor, Bert?” Arthur asked evenly. The notion of Merlin conspiring with Morgana was an old, discredited tale that would not die. 

“Lord Pynell’s been saying that Master Merlin has, ah, beguiled Your Majesty.”

“Beguiled?” Arthur spat. Whether Pynell meant that Merlin had enchanted Arthur with magic or with the arts of the bedchamber, he neither knew nor cared. Pynell had spent years casting doubt on Merlin’s intentions and loyalty, and Merlin had seemed to not care what the man said about him. Now, though, Pynell’s rumor-mongering took on a more treacherous form. After a loss in battle, any man might wonder at a king’s abilities in war. After Arthur had drawn that glorious sword from the heart of the stone, the grumbling had fallen silent. But Pynell’s new insinuations could cast new doubts upon Arthur’s reign. With a sorcerer at his side, who could say if it was Arthur who ruled, or if it was Merlin standing behind the throne, guiding the king like a puppet through magical means-- or physical ones. 

“It’s only a rumor, Sire,” Bert said.

“Rumor travels the breadth of the land while the truth sits at home putting on its boots,” Guinevere quoted some old adage. “And more men in Camelot doubt Merlin than trust him. There have already been attempts to ruin his reputation and outright murder him.”

Arthur took Guinevere’s hands in his own. “And we will continue to protect him.” He calmed himself by calming her, and the tide of anger rising in his veins began to ebb, leaving behind a sense of purpose. “We will send men to meet Leon and Elyan on the road, bring back their witness, and see what he has to say. Then, and only then, will we decide what to do with Lord Pynell. Bert, I must ask you to leave us now.”

“Sire.” Bert nodded and rose, knees cracking, and limped to the door. 

When it closed behind him, Arthur turned toward the fire and folded his arms. “I wish he’d had more to say. I already know Pynell is a treacherous man. I already know he hates Merlin. Some hint of who this witness is or what he’s heard is what I wanted to hear.”

“I’m sure Elyan and Leon have their reasons for not sending Bert with more than that.” Guinevere put a hand on his arm. “We don’t know what things are like there or how closely Pynell watches them. That must be all they dared to risk giving him.”

Arthur looked to Merlin. “Have you been able to see anything there at Tintagel with your spells?”

“No. I’ve only looked for Leon or Elyan, but it’s as though fog lies over the castle and I can’t see through it. If I looked for Pynell, I’d probably see the same. I think I know what causes it, but I can’t be sure. It’s like it was in the autumn when I couldn’t see the battle before us.” Merlin stared uneasily at the fire, as though it would grant him the answers he sought. His face was expressionless, but something in his voice and posture raised Arthur’s hackles. Merlin was not a man who feared things, and yet Arthur had the sense that Merlin was afraid now. 

“Then there is nothing for us to do but send riders to meet Leon and Elyan on the road,” Guinevere said. Her voice trembled for a moment, then steadied. “They trusted Bert to carry that message to us, and they will trust us to respond to it. If this witness has proof of Lord Pynell’s treachery, then there is more at stake then their lives. The future of Camelot could rest upon this.” 

“You’re right,” Arthur said. He straightened and drew in a deep breath. “I will send men to ride for Tintagel. Not many, as they must ride far and fast, and through the snow. I doubt Pynell will be able to send more than we can, though he is closer. Dagonet is still watching over the Isle of the Blessed or I’d send him. Gwaine and Lancelot, I think, and Percival. Bedivere, too.”

“You should send Gareth,” Guinevere said. Arthur opened his mouth to protest. “No, hear me out. The rumor will go out that you’ve received an urgent message, and when you send knights out on the road in answer everyone will know something important has happened. Pynell’s spies-- surely he has them here-- might suspect something and send word to Tintagel. But if we put about that the message came from Amata, that Gareth’s father has summoned him, then perhaps we can delay word getting back to Pynell.”

“How can you know if that rumor will spread? People in Camelot know Bert. They’ll know he’s come from Tintagel,” Arthur said. 

Guinevere straightened and smiled. “That is where we women come in. You men think your talk is so important, and that women only have idle gossip. But I promise you that more business in a household, town, or castle is done thanks to women’s talk than you think. The kingdom wouldn’t last a week without us. Ask Drusilla if you doubt me.” 

Arthur did not need to ask Drusilla. Guinevere was right. His father might have given women short shrift, seen them as little more than bargaining chips-- and paid the price for it after a lifetime of treating Morgana like a dainty doll-- but Arthur had learned better. “What is your plan?”

“Elayne. Everyone believes she’s a bit daft. Sweet, but not a great wit. But she’s clever enough in her way. If I give her a bit of choice gossip and tell her to spread it around to particular ears, it will be all over the city by nightfall. And because no one thinks Elayne has enough sense to lie, they’ll believe the story we put out. Especially when your riders begin their journey by heading north,” Guinevere said. 

If he hadn’t known better, Arthur would have said that Guinevere had taken lessons at Drusilla’s knee. He grinned. “Who was it that was complaining about lies traveling far while the truth is putting its boots on?” She flushed and looked down. “No, don’t be embarrassed. It’s a good plan. It will throw Pynell’s spies off the scent and give Gareth some experience in the field. He’s been champing at the bit all winter long. Bedivere will be glad for the chance to stretch his legs after all this time, too.”

“I’ll go as well,” Merlin said quietly. Arthur had nearly forgotten he was there, half-hidden in the shadows. He looked distracted, though his voice was firm. 

Arthur flinched and hid the movement by folding his arms and turning to face the sorcerer. “If Pynell’s men catch up to Leon and Elyan, it will mean a fight.”

“Then they will need a healer.”

“You’ve said before that you don’t want to openly move against Pynell. That it would look as though you were using your power against him directly instead of leaving it to the laws of Camelot.”

“Then I won’t attack him or his men, or ride against him, or use magic against him.” Merlin met his eyes. An eerie intensity lay beneath his calm demeanor. It sent chills down Arthur’s spine, and he would have granted Merlin the moon if he had asked for it. “But there is something out there I must see to. Besides. Elyan once risked his life for me. It’s time I repaid him.”

“I didn’t know you remembered that,” Arthur said. Merlin merely held his gaze and nodded. “Very well, then. If I don’t permit you now, you’ll find some way around it. Tell the others and inform the quartermaster of your needs. I want you to leave by the north road as soon as possible. There is only one passable road from here to Tintagel during the winter, and you have a long way to go.”

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


They were ready to depart an hour after noon, clad in heavy cloaks and oilskins against the cold and the oncoming rain Merlin felt in his bones. He tugged at his thick gloves. They made him feel clumsy compared to the fine kid leather pairs Gwen had stitched for him when the cold settled into his joints and made it difficult to do more than pick up a book or latch a door. 

Why was he doing this, setting out into the dregs of winter to possibly face an enemy he had promised not to move against? He had told Arthur he wished to repay Elyan for the knight’s courage in trying to rescue him at Blackheath. He did remember seeing Elyan in the crowd, vague as the memory was. So yes, he was intending to repay a favor if he could.

Something else pulled at him, though. Some ineffable urging in the back of his mind, a whisper of wind half-heard and barely remembered. Was it something to do with the warning in his dream? 

“Emrys.” 

Merlin turned abruptly at the unexpected voice. Niniane gave him a wan smile from under a fur-lined hood. She, too, was wrapped in a heavy cloak. The Druid had suffered more than even Merlin had in the long winter, fading like a summer flower touched by unexpected frost. It wasn’t that Niniane had grown sickly over the past weeks so much as lingering fatigue that no amount of sleep could cure had settled over her. It was likely caused by spending so much time indoors, cooped up with the same people every day, away from the sunlight. Until now, Niniane had spent her winters in the south of Nemeth where snow never seemed to fall and if the sea didn’t keep the misty forests warm, it at least kept them comfortable while the northerly lands shivered. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she said. Her smile brightened for a moment, then faded. “Are you sure you have to do this? It’s a long way through the snow, and I know you feel worse than you let on.”

“I’ll be fine. There are inns along the way, so we won’t be sleeping under hazel thickets or snowdrifts. The rest, I’ll live with.” He shrugged, wishing he could so easily shrug off her fears. His scars would itch and ache whether he was here or on the road, so he might as well make himself useful. If Pynell’s men caught up to Leon and Elyan, they might need a healer. And if not he would at least find an answer to that inscrutable call. 

Niniane scrunched her nose at him. “If you have to go, at least take care of yourself. If not for your own sake or mine, then for Gwaine’s health. I overheard the king threaten him with dire consequences if he lost sight of you again. Does he often do that?”

“Does Arthur often threaten Gwaine? Yes, though less often and less severely than he’d like to.”

“I meant, does Gwaine often lose sight of you?” 

Merlin glanced over at Gwaine, who was ignoring everyone else in favor of saying good-bye to a tearful Linnet. His arms wrapped about her, and he was whispering into her ear, no doubt promising that everything would be fine and that he would be home before she could turn around twice. 

He wished he could say the same to Niniane, wished he could lie to her and that she would believe him when he said everything would be fine. He sighed and took her hands. “The last time Gwaine lost sight of me was at Blackheath. I don’t blame him for it. If I couldn’t see what was coming, there was no chance he could have.”

Niniane blanched, then took his hands. With a start, Merlin remembered that she had been one of the healers who saved his life in the aftermath of that battle. She recalled it all too clearly, even if he did not. “No matter what happens, this can’t possibly be as bad as that. I look forward to your return and to hearing about what mad dream sent you out into weather like this,” she said, smiling wanly. 

“And I look forward to telling you about it,” he replied and raised his hands to her lips. “I hope it will be sooner than either of us thinks it will be.”

A stablehand brought a horse to him then. Not his Altair. A hot-blooded courser like that was not bred for snow and muddy trails. They were all riding heavier stock with shaggy coats that would be less troubled by the wet and the cold. And though they didn’t look as dignified as Altair or Arthur’s Canrith, Merlin saw a sharp intelligence in their eyes. “And who is this?” 

“‘s Astor, sir,” the boy replied. “She’s a clever one. Best keep an eye on her. She likes to break out of her stall and go wandering.”

“That sounds familiar,” Merlin said softly and patted the mare’s nose. She gave a contented sigh and nuzzled his hand.

“She’s not the only one who likes to wander.” Arthur said from behind him “This hound won’t hunt. He’d rather laze about and beg the ladies for table scraps. But I think I trust him to find his way home better than you.” There was neither heat nor scorn in Arthur’s voice, merely a feigned lightness as he handed Merlin the hound’s lead.

“Was this your idea or his?” Merlin asked. He took the lead from Arthur, unclipped it from the hound’s collar, and handed it off to the stableboy.

“His entirely. I found the kennel keeper chasing him around the courtyard. I’d tell the man to just let him into the castle, but then he’d think he was allowed on the beds and everything would be covered in dog hair,” Arthur said. 

“And start smelling like a wet dog,” Niniane said, wrinkling her nose at the hound’s odor, which was musky and strong despite the cold. For his part, Cabal leaned against Merlin and panted happily. 

Merlin scratched the dog’s ears, strangely comforted by the dog’s presence. “I expect you to help me keep Gwaine in line, all right?” Cabal wagged his tail.

“That’s it, then. The baggage is packed, the horses are ready, and the north road outside the gate has been cleared as much as it can be in one morning. The rest of the journey is up to you, but I expect a report from Sir Kai as soon as you reach Blackheath. You’ll be able to hear Lady Drusilla’s displeasure from there if we don’t hear from you. And keep your eyes open in King Hywel’s court. He owes Camelot his throne, but he may resent that we’ve kept his son and heir here, among strangers.”

“I’ll send a bird when I know anything,” Merlin promised, silently substituting Leon and Elyan for Kay, and Pynell for King Hywel. Arthur had pitched his voice low, but it was loud enough to carry. Between that and Elayne’s rumors, the story that Merlin, Gareth, and the knights were heading north to Amata would be in half the city’s taverns by sundown. 

“Good luck, then. And be careful,” Arthur said, clapping him on the shoulder. Worry lines were etched around his eyes, and Merlin thought he had heard a catch in the king’s voice, but Arthur smiled anyway, taking Niniane’s arm and stepping back to give Merlin space to swing up into the saddle. 

“You don’t need to worry about me. It’s Gwaine you should be fussing over,” Merlin said. He turned toward Gwaine, who was finally letting go of Linnet and mounting his horse. “He’s going to complain like a lovesick dove the entire way there.”

Gwaine glared back at him, then turned to give Linnet a final wave before nudging his horse forward. Merlin did the same, favoring Niniane with as warm a smile as he could muster before urging Astor on behind Gwaine and the other knights. The horses picked their way along the snow-clotted street, steadfastly ignoring the shouts and curious stares from the passersby who gathered to watch the unexpected procession as they passed through the north gate, down the road, and into the unknown.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


They traveled for nearly two leagues along the north road. Their pace was faster than Merlin had expected, thanks to the muddy path out by merchants whose business would not wait for spring. Though the mood was somber, Gareth’s enthusiasm lifted their spirits for a time. The boy was too young and too excited to be on the road as part of an important mission, accompanying no less than the feared sorcerer Merlin, to let the cold and damp bother him. The boy’s high spirits prompted a few jokes-- some at Gareth’s expense, most at Gwaine’s-- and even Lancelot and Bedivere chimed in with witticisms now and then. 

Merlin, however, remained silent, constantly watching the road through the deepening forest, waiting for some sign or warning from the gods, something to tell him what the warning from his dream was for. But the gods remained silent. He would have to rely on himself to unravel the riddle of Freya's warning and hope he solved it in time.

They turned onto a game trail as the westering sun sent shadows slanting long and dark across the track. Bedivere had sworn it turned into a wider path half a mile onward, then onto a road that led to a village with an inn where they could stop for the night, even if they were merely begging for a spot on the floor near the fire. 

The road, town, and inn were there as promised, with enough open rooms that they each had their own narrow bed. In the morning, the aching in his bones and the pull of his scarred skin made Merlin feel like he was a hundred years old. The others fairly bounded out of bed, barely containing their enthusiasm to be away from Camelot’s castle at last and to be on the road. Merlin did his best to keep up with them, kept a smile plastered to his face though he was sure by the end of the second day that it resembled a rictus grin more than any happy expression. 

By the time they reached a stopping point on the third day-- a collection of huts that could only charitably be called a village-- Merlin all but fell out of the saddle, clinging to the stirrup to keep from sliding to the ground. 

Lancelot was at his side in an instant with a hand at his elbow. “Are you all right?”

“If I say I am, will you believe me?” Merlin asked.

“I’ll believe what I see, not what you say,” Lancelot replied. He let go of Merlin’s arm long enough to pull the packs off Astor’s saddle and drape them over his shoulder. Then he waved Gwaine over. 

“Everything all right?” he asked, eyeing Merlin who was finally beginning to straighten, though one hand still clutched at the stirrup. 

“Will you look after our horses? I’m going to get Merlin inside before he collapses. He’s not as well as he lets on,” Lancelot said. 

“I’m tired from all this riding,” Merlin grumbled, “I’m not dying.”

“That snowdrift has more color than you do, Merlin,” Lancelot said. “If I've learned anything, it’s that you take good care of your healer. You're going inside so you can warm up before you end up face-first in a pile of snow.”

Gwaine forced a laugh. “It wouldn’t be a good look for you, mate. Go on. I’ll have Gareth see to the horses. It’ll help him work off some of that damnable energy of his.”

The inn’s interior was slightly more impressive than its dilapidated exterior. The low-beamed ceiling would have made the common room feel close and cramped if not for the pains the lady of the house had taken to make the place as welcoming as possible. The floors had been scrubbed recently, the hearth scooped and clear of old ashes. Stout wooden benches lined sturdy trestle tables-- enough to seat perhaps two dozen, though only a few old men nursed mugs of foamy ale while trading good-natured barbs and playing dice with the innkeeper. 

A woman approached them, her broom clutched in a white-knuckled grip. “Can I help you, M’Lords?”

Lancelot smiled at her. “Forgive us for the mud, M’Lady. We’ve been traveling all day. We were hoping to find a hot meal and a place to sleep if you have either. Besides me and my companion, there are four others ” His smile usually melted a frosty exterior, but this woman eyed Lancelot’s red cloak warily. 

“We only have three rooms, M’Lord, and two of them are already taken,” she said, her tone walking a razor’s edge between polite and frightened. “You’re king’s men, then?”

“Aye, M’Lady,” Lancelot said softly. “We’re king’s men bound on an errand for His Majesty. We’ll only be here for the night if you’ll allow it, and be gone again in the morning.”

The woman swallowed and her grip on the broom tightened until it seemed her fingers would break. Merlin glanced around the room, taking in the arrangement of the furniture, the delicate carvings above the windows, the way onions and herbs were hung to dry at the far end. They were familiar patterns and subtle, unlikely to catch the eye of any but one who was already familiar with them. He straightened and stepped forward, pushing his hood the rest of the way off of his head. 

“ _Diwrnod da, Fy Arglwyddes_ ,” he said, pitching his voice to carry across the room without being over loud. “My friends and I want no trouble for you and yours. We only want shelter from the night. May we stay under your roof and break bread with you?”

The woman’s eyes widened as she looked at him, her clenched jaw softening at the sound of the old language.”Are you a king’s man, too?” she asked dubiously. The innkeeper and the old men at the table had fallen silent, though they still pretended to play their game. They were listening, old reflexes coming to bear as they prepared to fight or flee. 

“Yes, I serve King Arthur. He is a good man, and not like his father. He is just, and seeks to deal fairly with everyone in his kingdom,” Merlin said. The woman was beginning to calm herself, though she still kept a white-knuckled grip on her broom like she expected to have to defend herself. “You may believe me. _Fy enw i yw Emrys_.”

Her eyes widened in awe before she mastered herself, took a breath, and returned her expression to a neutral state. “My name is Anwen. My husband there,” she nodded at the innkeeper, “is Rhodri. We welcome you into our home and invite you to share a meal. We only have one room available, but you and yours are welcome to sleep beside our hearth.”

“Thank you, Anwen,” Merlin said. “If there is anyone who needs a healer, I have the training and am willing to help them if they ask it.”

“I will spread the word. There are few of us left here, but I can think of one or two who could use your skills. Come in, come in. We have a good fire, but it won’t warm all of winter.” With most of her fears allayed, Anwen was as helpful as Merlin could hope for. She enlisted her husband’s aide in carrying their luggage to the last available room while she sent one of the old men out to help the knights stable their horses for the night. Anwen herself settled Merlin into a chair by the fire, interspersing her apologies for the simple fare with soft exclamations that of all people, he had shown up on their doorstep, to which Merlin responded that his childhood home had been humbler than this inn and that she should call him ‘Merlin’. 

By the time Anwen stopped fussing over him, the rest of the knights had entered, shaken the snow off their boots, and settled down. Though their manner was subdued, Merlin saw the tension in the room rise again. Magic might be legal once more and the knights of Camelot no longer rode through the countryside searching for sorcerers to execute, but even royal decrees did not erase two decades of fear. 

It was Gareth who did the most to ease Anwen’s fears, though he did not know it. He might have been well-dressed-- muddy as he was-- but he was still a coltish boy adjusting to his long legs. If he’d had to guess, Merlin would have said that Anwen had once had a son, as tall and bright-eyed as Gareth, and that this son was long dead, whether by illness or by the sword. Whatever had happened to this theoretical boy, Anwen doted upon the real boy in front of her until Gareth, baffled by but unwilling to reject her kindness, began to look upon her with real affection. 

Lancelot sat down next to Merlin and leaned in close for as private of a conversation as they could get in the common room. “What did you say to her to get you to trust you? I was beginning to think she was going to toss us out on our ears, knights or not.”

“They’re followers of the old ways and the Old Religion. Uther might have forced them to convert to his faith, but when you’ve believed in something for so long, it never leaves you. Deep down, they still honor the old gods. I see it everywhere I look,” Merlin said, unconsciously glancing around the room again.

“I don’t see it,” Lancelot said. 

“You wouldn’t. It wasn’t part of your childhood.”

“I’ll grant you that. But what was that language you were speaking? I’ve never heard that out of your mouth before.”

“An old tongue. One that was here long before Uther’s kind ever reached these shores,” Merlin said. “My mother taught me some when I was a child, but we rarely used it. There was no one to talk to, and it was forbidden anyway. It must sound awful when I speak it now.” 

“But why was she frightened when we came in? Your beliefs aren’t forbidden anymore. Arthur’s decreed that anyone can practice any religion they choose.

Merlin watched Anwen and Rhodri as they went about the business of running their inn and wondered if this place had always encompassed their lives, or if this was where they had stopped after years of running. “They spent years fearing for their lives because of their beliefs. That fear doesn’t fade because a new king changes a law. It doesn’t go away overnight. It becomes part of you, and if you’re not careful it will change you, twist you about until you’re no longer the person you remembered being. Fear is part of what made Morgana what she is,” he finished softly. 

“And what about you? You’ve been afraid.” 

“Yes.”

“And it didn’t turn you into someone like Morgana,” Lancelot said. “You’re nothing like her.”

“Perhaps not.” Merlin turned his gaze to the embers of the fire and said nothing more.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Later, near midnight when the night had settled over the little village with a thick and numbing stillness, Merlin woke from a confused dream of eerie whispers and the distant cries of crows. He lay still for a while, staring up into the darkness in a vain search for the memory of what had disturbed him so. But the darkness kept its secrets, and so he sat up and reached for his clothes and boots. Though he remembered no words, he knew the dream had been a summons. One that might bring disaster upon his head or others if he ignored it. 

He moved slowly as he dressed and pulled his cloak over his shoulders, drawing the hood over his head. Anwen had given him the last available room, and Gwaine had drawn the long straw that granted him the other narrow bed. He wanted none of the knight’s inevitable questions. When the door creaked on its aging hinges, Gwaine stirred. Merlin let a breath of magic soothe him back to sleep, then let the spell range through the inn to find the other sleepers to lull them into a deeper slumber that would leave them refreshed in the morning with no sense of any dreams, no matter if they were sweet or strange. 

The spell did not affect dogs, alas, for Cabal rose, yawned, and padded down the stairs behind him. 

Nor did the spell seem to have affected Anwen, though she blinked heavily like a sleepy child. “My lord?” she whispered. “Is everything all right? I had the strangest dream. There were crows all around us.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m going to find out what’s going on. But whatever it is, it’s looking for me. It won’t trouble you. When I leave, it will, too.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, her eyes wide in the darkness as she searched his face for signs of a lie. 

“As sure as I can be.”

She rested her hands on either side of his face. “Be careful. There are too many of our kind buried in these woods. You are powerful, but in the forest at night, there are forces that can match you, strength for strength.” 

Merlin covered her hands with his own. Through the fine leather of his gloves, he felt the stirrings of an old power within her. “You were a priestess once, weren’t you?”

“I was. Ages ago. But my power is nearly gone, withered from lack of use. I have not forgotten what I learned, though.” Her fingers tightened upon his face. “This is the Goddess’s hour, and you walk into a place that has long been hers. I know what stories are told about Her, but Emrys, they are not all true. Yes, she can be vengeful. Yes, she knows hate and inspires fear. But as with people, there is more to Her than a single trait. The strongest of her followers channel Her darkest aspects, but as the night balances the day, so too does the Goddess inspire balance. There is some part of Her within all of us, no matter how much we want to believe otherwise.”

Merlin held his tongue. Anwen believed what she said, but he could not forget the darkness he had seen in Morgana before she condemned him to the fire at Blackheath. Nor could he forget how, later in the ruined temple, the Goddess had nearly torn him apart from the inside when he refused to give himself over to Her. 

“Remember what I’ve said, Emrys,” Anwen said. Though soft, her voice had a ring of command. Not a spell, merely the words of a woman who had once given orders and expected them to be obeyed. 

“I will remember,” he said. “And whatever happens, I will not bring trouble to your house.”

Anwen smiled sadly, her eyes shining in the faint light. “There is no trouble you could bring me now that would be worse than what I’ve already endured.”

He had no answer for that, so he took her hands in his and kissed her aged fingers. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She nodded and held the door for him, brushing a hand over Cabal’s head as the hound passed her. The door closed with a quiet click, leaving him alone in the darkened woods. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


He stepped outside and opened his senses to the night, breathing in the cold wet air, trusting that whatever called him would show him the way. Soon, he felt something brush against his mind, a voiceless whisper pulling him westward. He followed, stumbling through drifts and tripping over fallen, snow-covered branches. He went from shivering to sweating, and though his breathing was labored, it was eerily quiet, muted by snow and tree. The rustling of nighttime animals and the creaking of branches echoed strangely, the sounds made ominous in the darkness. The sound of Cabal panting behind him was scant comfort in the darkness.

Finally, when his shaking legs threatened to collapse under him, Merlin staggered into a clearing and dropped to his knees. His eyes widened. 

The clearing was a wide circle lit by a pale light not cast by the moon. Around him were the silhouettes of standing stones, thrice his height and looming like eldritch guardians from time immemorial. A lower stone stood in the center, no less unnerving for its smaller size. It must have been an altar, upon which sacrifices might have been made to ancient gods. 

The trees surrounding the circle were thick with crows. They filled the branches so completely he was amazed they did not bend under their weight. They were silent, watching him from their perches, eyes glittering in the moonlight like a sky full of cold stars. 

A silent call beckoned him toward the altar. He lurched to his feet and trudged toward it, his fascination outweighing his fear. The crust of ice atop the snow crackled under his feet. It was loud in the silence, like the crackling of a bonfire. He shivered at the memory of such heat and then went still, suddenly chilled as though the hand of Winter was caressing his spine. Cabal pressed against his legs, offering what protection a hound could give against a force beyond even Merlin’s measure. 

Later, he could not have said when She appeared. The space behind the altar was empty, and then it wasn’t. A shifting of air and darkness, and then She was standing before him, both far away and right beside him, close as a lover. Her aspect was ever-shifting. She was a maiden, full of light and innocence. She was an expectant mother, heavy with child, Her eyes filled with the mysteries of life. She was a crone, Her beauty withered but shining with the wisdom of age. And within all these aspects of life was the sense of fear and death, for the Goddess could take life as readily as She could give it. When he tried to fix Her image in his mind, it writhed in his memory, sent the circle of stones spinning around him and sent him reeling though he felt like he was frozen in place.

_Hush._

Her voice was a whisper in his ear that resounded through the clearing like a bell. The dizziness receded. He took a deep breath, and the cold air cleared his head and he could see again, though the Goddess’s ever-shifting aspect did not change. 

“What do you want?” he rasped.

_What does any god want from a mortal?_

He stopped before saying the first thing that came to mind. Not souls. Those were an obsession of the priests of Arthur’s god, not something that his gods ever dwelled upon. Service, too, seemed wrong, for while the Old Religion had once had its orders of priestesses and priests, the common people had never been bound by terms of service, no matter who they directed their prayers to. 

Their prayers…

Everyone prayed at some point. He had done so even as a child when searching for a lost toy or a stray lamb, though his mother had always told him to pray silently. The gods would hear him, she’d said. He dared not let men do the same. So he had whispered his child's prayers to the wind, to the high places in the hills and the bogs in valleys, to Rhiannon and Lugh and all the names he'd overheard in the night, casting his hopes and his wishes into the air like dandelion fluff with the unyielding faith that some spirit would hear and answer him. But if one of his prayers had reached the Goddess's ears, it was by mischance, a message miscarried by some careless breeze and not by his own direction.

“What, you want me to pray to you, to worship you?” Merlin would have recoiled if he could have moved. “After everything your priestesses have done to me?”

_My servants make their own choices._

“Oh, yes. Your servants make their choices. Over and over they've chosen to try to kill me. But they weren’t in that temple last winter. That was you, infecting my blood and tearing me apart from within. Your actions. Your choice. You wanted me dead that night.”

Her sigh was like an autumn wind blowing through the trees. _For vengeance. Vengeance against your king and his white god, for all the evil he and his kind have done to my people. For all that has been lost for the love of Camelot._

The last words were hissed, the sound of them scraping down his spine like nails against a stone. Merlin shuddered, then took a breath. “Arthur is not his father.”

_And yet he would have been our undoing._

“If that’s so, what could my prayers do for you? And why seek me now, when you and yours have always sought to do me harm?”

_All things change, Emrys._

“And even gods are fallible?”

She was silent, while in the trees, the mass of crows ruffled their feathers, as though suddenly uncomfortable.

Merlin huffed a bitter laugh. “You have your followers. You have your priestess. What could you possibly need from me?”

The Goddess hesitated. The clearing grew colder.

_My followers flee to the mists. My priestess is alone in her power. She alone cannot hold back the darkness that comes._

He drew a breath to speak, then paused. She had hesitated. What cause did anyone-- especially a god-- have to hesitate? Then he smiled. “You’re afraid.” He marveled. “But of what?”

She was silent, and the crows in the trees fluttered uneasily again.

“What could harm you? Even I’m not powerful enough for that.” He waited in silence, but She did not respond. Fine. He would reason his way through, as Gaius had taught him to do. “You don’t fear us for the harm that we could do to you. But you attack the kings who persecuted your followers- those of the old religion. And what’s left of them, you say, are fleeing into the mists. A haven of some kind? But separate from the world, or Morgana wouldn’t be alone in her power.”

_Yes_

“And if there is any darkness coming, it’s the Saxons. They don’t follow Arthur’s god, but they don’t pray to you, either. They don't believe in you. Not as we do, here in Albion. And they’re strong. They could annihilate the Five Kingdoms, wipe out the last followers of the old religion, even the ones who fled to the mists.”

_Yes_

“And you would be forgotten. The memory of you would be wiped away from these lands, and you would fade away like an old song.”

_Yes_

He heard-- or imagined he heard-- an edge of fear in the voice echoing in his mind. He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound in the silence. “So be it.”

Her scream sliced through his bones like a knife. A clawed hand seemed to wrap around his throat, keeping him upright even as his knees buckled. He could not bear to look into Her eyes and yet he could look nowhere else, and in those depths it was as though an endless void had spread out around him, vast and empty and unknowable, filled with the movements of planets and stars and heavenly bodies he could neither name nor comprehend. Time spread all around him, an infinite wave so vast no mortal could fathom it. He could have wept at the immensity of it all.

_Look at eternity, little mortal. Look at all that was or ever will be, if you can bear it. We were here, wandering in the outer darkness before time, before men existed to give thought or praise to us. We were here when the sea delivered the first men to these shores. When they looked into the forests and the mists and the darkness and cried out in fear, We answered them. We protected them from the beasts of the outer night, and in return they honored us. Do not think we will stand idly by and allow ourselves to fade into oblivion. You are the greatest of our followers. You will honor me as you honor the rest of my kin._

“No,” he managed to choke out. Not after all She had done to him. Her power had brought him to the fire at Blackheath. Her power had torn him apart in the ruined temple. Her power had brought nothing but pain and death to him and the ones he loved.

_You are wrong._

The stone circle darkened around him, swirling with smoke. Behind that was the hellish, bloody glow of a fire burning out of control. The air was too hot to breathe. Far away, he heard a cry filled with terror. And yet there were words in the cry, words of an ancient, half-familiar tongue. 

The voice was his mother’s. 

As the flames rose higher in his mind, her sharp cry abruptly ended.

_When the fire was all around her, she called out to me. And I gave her peace._

His knees buckled and he would have collapsed, tears hot on his cheeks but for Her hands on his shoulders. No longer clutching him, but instead holding him close as though to comfort him. 

He had enough control to shove away from her. He staggered and caught the edge of the altar with one hand. For a moment he used it to steady himself, then let go. 

_Honor me._

“No!” he cried out, voice cracking under the strain of old grief.

_You will. We fight for our survival, and we will use whatever means necessary to ensure it. In time, even you will honor Me. Try as you might, you cannot avoid Me forever. Look to the stars, if you will, but you will find them cold comfort. You will honor me, or you can let thought and memory drive you mad._

As one, the vast flock of crows took flight and the noise of their wings and their cries filled his ears until he thought he would hear nothing else ever again. But at last, as though from a great distance, he heard the call of two ravens.

Then he knew nothing more.

* * *

  
  


Merlin woke to the scent of a wet dog. He groaned and turned away, and the pain in his head awoke his other senses. He was cold and aching, and something was licking his face. He pried his crusted eyes open, blinked a few times, and saw Cabal standing over him looking as worried as a hound could look. He nudged Merlin’s face again and recommenced licking when the sorcerer failed to greet him. 

He sat up and pressed his hands to his temples before wiping grit from his eyes and snot from his nose. No trace of the Goddess was left in the stone circle; no footprints in the snow save his own, no handprint marred the rime of frost on the altar, no feather marked the flight of a mass of crows. 

Even his memory of the night seemed old and far away, and the recollection of his mother’s dying cry lacked the power to wound him anymore.

He looked up, and though the stars were veiled by clouds he could tell dawn was still hours away. He had been unconscious for a long while. That he had lain there all that time and not frozen to death was a marvel, and probably due to Cabal’s presence. “I owe you again, old friend. And Gwaine will owe you, too, since I heard that Arthur threatened him with dire consequences if anything happened to me.” 

He grabbed Cabal’s shoulders and sat up, groaning again at the ache of joints stiffened by the cold. The hound stood still, stoically enduring the sorcerer’s awkward clutching until he stood and set one foot in front of the other. “I hope no one notices we’re gone,” he said, sighing at the thought. Gwaine might wake up, discover that he was missing, and raise the alarm. The knights would follow his blundering trail, find him in a snowdrift, and ask questions. Then they would insist that he spend half the day resting and delay their mission that much longer. 

“And we can’t do that now, can we?” he asked Cabal. The dog sniffed his hand and bounded forward, then stopped and waited until Merlin staggered up to him, then repeated the process again and again. “Cutting a trail for me? That’s kind of you. I wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t gone with me last night, though I don’t think the Goddess would have let me die. Not now. Perhaps she would have spirited me back to the inn. Seems like it would be within her abilities to do so. It would have been wiser than letting me lay in a pile of snow for hours.” He continued to grumble as they went, and Cabal continued to not answer. 

Merlin did not mark how long he walked, staggering from tree to tree as Cabal cut a makeshift trail through the drifts. He only noticed his feet and how cold he was where snow had soaked through his clothes. The pain in his head slowly subsided, but in its wake, he noticed how much the rest of him hurt-- his cold-stiffened joints; his lungs, burning from breathing the freezing air for so long; his back and wrists, where the burn scars tingled and itched; his gloved hands had cramped and clenched into claws.

He stopped, shoving his hands into his armpits to warm them. The trees were thinning the closer he got to the village, and he thought he saw a light in a window. Even in winter, shepherds were up before the sun to check on their sheep. It was lambing season, after all, and like human newborns, lambs paid no attention to the time of day. Would Anwen be up, too, awaiting his return? And if so, which version of her would he find? The ordinary innkeeper’s wife of the daylight hours, or the Goddess-blessed servant he’d met in the night? 

In the end, it was neither of them. Anwen had not waited up for him, but Gwaine had awakened and, upon seeing Merlin’s bed empty, had risen to look for the sorcerer. He was pulling his boots on when Merlin opened the door to the little room they were sharing. 

“Where were you?” Gwaine hissed. Merlin sensed that he was keeping his voice lower than he wanted to. 

“Out. I had to see a woman about some birds,” he said lightly. And all at once, the shock of the night, of his encounter with the Goddess and the time spent lying in the snow hit him. He started giggling and could not stop, could barely undo the buckles on his boots or unwrap the cloak from around his shoulders.

“Are you all right?” Gwaine asked. There was a tone in his voice that men used to calm snarling dogs. 

“I’ll- I’ll be fine,” Merlin wheezed. 

Gwaine laid a hand on his forehead. “You’re not feverish. Let me help you with that, mate. Then you can lie down and get warmed up. I’ll see if the innkeeper’s wife is up yet, have her make you something hot to eat if she is.” 

Merlin surrendered the task of removing his boots to Gwaine and did not resist when the knight urged him to lie down and pulled the covers up to his chin. Cabal hopped onto the bed, and despite the narrow frame he curled up around the sorcerer. 

“You get some sleep now, all right?” Gwaine plopped onto his bed and heaved a sigh. “I’ll stay here until you’re asleep, and then I’ll go and find the innkeeper’s wife. What was her name? Branwen?”

“Anwen. She was an important person once. Did you know that?” Merlin mumbled. He had thought it would take ages to get warm again, but lying next to Cabal was like lying next to an oven, and soon he was blinking sleepily. “Anwen knows all about the birds. It’s not just the crows now.”

Gwaine said something in response, but it sounded like he was speaking from underwater. He couldn’t make sense of it. Then drowsy darkness closed on him and he dreamed of black birds circling him forever. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


They left the inn not long after dawn. Gwaine was not sad to say farewell to the place, despite its comforts. For him, it would always summon that sense of dread he had felt upon waking to find Merlin’s bed empty. The sorcerer’s safe return had not quelled the feeling. There had been a fey look in Merlin’s eyes, and his unhinged laughter disturbed Gwaine more than he cared to think. 

Once upon a time, his mother had told him the reason the rulers of the Five Kingdoms had banned magic was because it made its wielders go mad. The power settled into their brains like a fever and burned away all reason. As a child, Gwaine had not questioned this. As a young man, he had. If magic drove men mad, then why had the kings waited so long to ban it? Hadn’t people been using magic for hundreds and hundreds of years? Wouldn’t people have noticed ages ago if magic made people go insane?

But Merlin’s appearance-- his pupils wide enough to turn his eyes black, smelling of cold wind and ice, and cackling about birds— made him wonder if his mother had been right after all.

He had lain awake for a long time after Merlin fell asleep, staring at the sorcerer, the dog, the wall, before he drifted off into strange dreams of forests filled with the sounds of birds. He had awoken feeling like he had not slept at all.

Merlin had risen looking refreshed, as though he had not been riding hard the previous three days and spent part of the night wandering through the woods on a winter’s night. He had even scryed for Leon and Elyan, finding them in a ruined tower Bedivere recognized straightaway as being within a day’s ride. Merlin had also sensed impending danger, although of what sort, he could not say. 

And so Gwaine yawned his way through packing his gear and saddling the horses, simply happy that Arthur would not have a reason to have his guts for garters as he had threatened to do if Gwaine let anything happen to Merlin. 

All he had to worry about today was the impending doom Merlin had predicted.

They emerged from the forest after midday, when the goat trail they were following turned out of the thinning forest and joined the broad main road as it descended into a narrow valley. Less snow covered the ground, and the wind-sculpted drifts had softened in the warming air. Chunks of snow and ice were beginning to fall from the trees, falling to the ground with endless rustling that set Gwaine’s teeth on edge. 

At the head of the group, Bedivere reined in his horse and gestured for the others to do the same. “There’s a river at the bottom of this valley. The ford that crosses it is a good place for an ambush. The water’s fast and shallow there, but there’s a stand of trees and a bunch of rocks where attackers could hide.”

“You’re assuming Pynell’s men could get ahead of Leon and Elyan,” Percival said. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“True. But the valley’s shallower on the other side of the river. The road follows it up. No switchbacks or curves.” Bedivere gestured at the thin gray line in the snow where it crested a hill, visible above a wide swath of trees filling the valley floor. “If you want to catch up to someone you’ve been chasing, that’s a good place to do it. The river will be full of ice this time of year. You’d have to have wings to cross it quickly.”

“You’re sure of where you saw them, Merlin?” Lancelot asked.

“Yes,” Merlin replied softly, his gaze on the horizon. “The ruins I saw are distinct. There’s nothing else like them around here. I could scry them again, but unless they’re at a better landmark, it might not do us any good.”

It would also, Gwaine noted, drain Merlin’s energy before they intended to ride into a precarious situation full of unknown dangers. 

“I don’t think you’ll need to do more magic,” Bedivere said. He started to make a gesture with one hand, then stopped.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Gareth said. “Wait at the river and hope they show up?”

“They have to cross there,” Lancelot said. “They’re within a day’s ride, and we’ve made up some of that distance for them by getting here. A river crossing’s dangerous on a good day. I’d prefer to not trust our luck to the river twice in one day if we can help it.”

“We can wait near the river,” Merlin said absently, still watching the horizon. “Cabal will warn us if anyone comes.”

Gwaine huffed a laugh. For all that Cabal wouldn’t hunt, he was sure the dog would warn them of anyone on the road. He was an uncanny creature, as all creatures seemed to be, that spent time with Merlin.

“I’m satisfied with that,” Lancelot said. 

“So am I,” said Percival. “Besides. If we’re in for a fight, it’d be better if we were rested, and Pynell’s men were tired from chasing Leon and Elyan. 

“We’ll meet them at the river. We only need to wait.” Merlin’s voice held the strange edge it had last night when he’d stumbled back into their room. Gwaine shivered and tugged at his cloak, as though it had only been a cold breeze running along his spine. 

“Right,” Bedivere said, giving Merlin a sidelong look. He shook his head and urged his horse forward. “If it’s a fight we’re waiting for, we’d best find the most defensible position we can. Tie up the horses somewhere they won’t be vulnerable. Find the high ground. How long do you think we’ll have?”

“Not long,” Merlin said. “They’re near her, and she can smell the water from where she is.” A glint of gold shone beneath Merlin’s half-closed eyelids. He took a sharp breath and shuddered, shaking his head as though shaking away some strange vision. 

She? Gwaine glanced over at Lancelot, who shrugged. 

Bedivere carried on, unmoved by Merlin’s mystical source. 

They reached the river’s edge within the hour, dismounting and pulling their weapons and shields off the saddles. Gareth, Lancelot, and Merlin took the horses to a nearby stand of trees where the beasts would be safe from attack, though they took care to secure the picket lines. They might not be warhorses trained in combat, but they still had hooves and teeth. The knights wanted the horses to be able to defend themselves if anyone approached them with mischief on their mind, but they didn’t want them to bolt for home because they heard the sound of combat. By the time they returned to the river, the others had found the most defensible positions. 

“The horses are safe? Good. Gareth, over here with me. I want you covering me with your shield. The rest of you pair up, one with a shield, one with a crossbow. Have your swords at the ready,” Bedivere stopped and glanced at Merlin. “Though there’ll be an odd man out. Unless you’re good with a shield, Merlin.”

“My experience with them is limited,” Merlin said dryly. 

“Right. You… do whatever you do in a fight. I’m not accustomed to ordering sorcerers around.”

“I’m not surprised,” Merlin said, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’ve been through fights before. Arthur used to be good at getting into them.”

Bedivere laughed. “Aye, he was at that. Stay out of the way of crossbow bolts, will you? I don’t have healing skills.”

“I’ll do my best,” Merlin said wryly. He pulled his hood up and knelt next to Gwaine. Gold shone in his eyes again and he stared at nothing, one hand clenched in Cabal’s fur.

“Are they close?” Gwaine asked.

“They’ll be here soon. They’re traveling as fast as they can, but the road on the far side isn’t as clear as it is here.” 

“Right.” Gwaine glanced across the river, where the road led out of the water. It was about a furlong wide at the crossing. It flowed quickly and might reach waist-deep at the deepest point. Snow and chunks of ice cluttered the shallows. Gwaine thanked their lucky stars that they were not trying to cross any later than this. Once the spring thaw melted the winter’s snows, this ford would become an impassable torrent.

“Check your weapons,” Bedivere ordered.

Gwaine had already looked over his crossbow, but he did it again, checking the latch and the string to ensure the cold had not affected them. Next to him, Lancelot drew his sword halfway before sliding it home and taking up his shield. The others did likewise, the motions keeping them limber and giving them something to do to ignore the growing fear and anticipation that came before a battle. 

Against that, Merin was eerily calm. His breathing was deep and slow, eyes closed as though he were preparing to sleep. Gwaine wondered what magic he was working, then banished the thought from his mind. Whatever Merlin meant to do, it would aid them in one way or another. Gwaine had his own part to play in this, and that involved strength of arms. 

They did not wait long. 

Cabal sensed the riders’ approach first. The hound’s head came up as he sniffed the air, his stance rigid, a growl sounding low in his chest. 

Minutes later, the first rider emerged from the trees at a fast canter. The horse balked when it saw the river and the rider dug his heels into the beast’s ribs to urge it on so the second two riders would not collide with him. Gwaine squinted, saw a flash of blond hair. Leon, followed by a gray-bearded man and a youth whose horse reared up, nearly dumping him onto the rocky ground. 

“Leon!” Bedivere shouted, raising his crossbow high with one hand to signal to the other knight that friends were there to help them in their flight.

Leon’s grin shone from across the river though his answering shout was drowned out by the rushing water. He gestured for the two men to ride on ahead of him, then wheeled his horse about and drew his sword. 

The knights locked their shields. Those with crossbows crouched behind them, sighting over the edges of the shields and taking careful aim before loosing their first bolts.

Merlin knelt beside Lancelot, still as stone. His eyes were closed, and Gwaine would have bet his last penny that if they were open, they’d be glowing gold. 

There was a faint shout from across the river, and Elyan burst out of the trees. His horse was wide-eyed with flecks of foam spotting its sides. Two horsemen flanked him. They were too finely dressed to be believable bandits, and Gwaine would have bet his boots that their blades were finer than any bandits would own. 

He sighted down the shaft of his crossbow and adjusted his aim, waiting until Elyan had turned out of his line of sight. Then he fired, quickly losing sight of the bolt and only breathing again when it struck one of the false bandits low in the side, doubling him over but not knocking him from the saddle. He dropped his sword. The horse reared and turned away from Elyan and the river. 

The other false bandit was between Elyan and the knights. Leon spurred his horse and rushed the man. The battle-trained courser had no qualms about colliding with the false bandit’s horse, a lighter beast that squealed and stumbled, driving its rider directly into line with the downstroke of Leon’s sword. The blade bit deeply into the false bandit’s neck. He shuddered and fell, one foot caught in a stirrup. 

Elyan reined in and slumped over his horse’s neck. Leon turned his horse to watch the road behind him as he wiped the blood off his blade. 

Meanwhile, the gray-bearded man and the youth had urged their horses across the river and were splashing through the shallows. Percival stood and reached for the youth’s horse’s reins. The boy, for he was hardly older than Gareth, was deathly pale. One side of his head was caked with rusty red. He held his head high, though, for all that his eyes weren’t focusing. 

“Gaheris?” The gray-beard said sharply, his voice edged with worry.

“‘M alright,” the boy said faintly. 

“I’ll believe that when you can look me in the eye, boy.”

“I’ll look after him,” Merlin said. “I’ve already taken care of the horses.”

“The horses?” Gwaine asked, looking about to see what Merlin was talking about. The injured bandit’s horse was trudging across the river, and the fallen bandit’s horse had freed itself of the dead man’s foot and followed its companion into the water. 

Elyan straightened and nudged his horse onward. A wide grin flashed across his face when he caught Gwaine’s eye. Even from across the river, he looked exhausted. Leon took up the rear. 

“It’s about time you showed up!” Elyan called once he and his horse cleared the deepest water. “I figured we’d find you lazing about back home, and here you are! But you couldn’t even bother to ford a river!”

“You did all right,” Gwaine said, patting Elyan’s horse on the side and grabbing the reins below its chin. Elyan might have greeted them with jokes, but he was about to keel over. “You look a little worse for the wear. Did one of the bastards get you?”

Elyan nodded. “Fortunately my ribs got in the way so he couldn’t slice me open. Hurts like hell, though.”

“Good thing we brought Merlin.” 

“Did you? That was good thinking.”

“It wasn’t my idea, so don’t go accusing me of being clever,” Gwaine said. “Merlin, Elyan could use your help when you have a moment.”

Merlin glanced up from his examination of Gaheris’s head wound and noted Elyan’s condition. “I’ll be right there. Though we ought to go back to where we left the horses. It’s not so windy there.”

“Right. Let’s get packed up, then.”

“That’s Merlin?” the gray-beard asked sharply. “That’s the king’s sorcerer?”

“Aye, that’s Merlin. A sorcerer. And a physician who has healed us all a time or two. Your boy’s in good hands with him, never fear,” Lancelot said calmly. 

The man’s jaw clenched. He probably wanted to say something spiteful but was savvy enough to keep his mouth shut. 

Bedivere strolled up to them, his crossbow dangling from one hand. His unmatching eyes gave him an unhinged look. “Arthur trusts the man with his life, Lord Caradoc. Your son will be fine. Are you all right?” 

“I am fine, sir knight. Thank you for your concern,” Lord Caradoc said, though it sounded like he was forcing the words out from between clenched teeth.

“Thank you for meeting up with us, Bedivere,” Leon said after he’d swung off his horse, letting the beast shake the water off. “I appreciate the help with the last two. They might be dressed like common bandits, but they’re Pynell’s for sure. There were three more, but we took care of them further back on the road.”

“Why did their horses come across the river?” Gareth asked. He’d grabbed the reins of the stray horse and eyed the one still carrying the injured man. It had wandered back to the water’s edge to drink. “Why didn’t they run back to where they came from?”

“I promised them good hay and a warm stable if they came with us,” Merlin said absently.

“You promised them…?” Leon asked, then shook his head. “Nevermind. Where are we going from here?”

“Up to a stand of trees where we left the horses picketed,” Bedivere said. “We can treat the wounded there, and then head back to the inn where we stayed last night.”

“You stayed at an inn? With a fire to keep you warm and some innkeeper’s cooking in your bellies?” Leon snorted. “We’ve spent the past several nights in caves and ruins, eating cold food and hoping we didn’t freeze to death.”

“Cheer up!” Gwaine said brightly. “All that hardship is extra fodder for the tales you can tell the ladies when we get home. No one wants to hear how the knights stayed at an inn and didn’t get into a fight. Your story makes you sound like a brave man.”

Leon rolled his eyes. “It’s good to know our hardships won’t go unappreciated. Come on. Let’s get to those trees so we can everyone patched up. It’s not getting any warmer out here.”

Once they reached the trees, Lancelot lit a fire while Merlin directed Lord Caradoc to wash the blood off Garheris’s face and hair. He then bade Elyan strip to the waist so he could check his injuries and ensure he wasn’t about to bleed to death. He found little more than a line of ugly bruises blossoming across the knight’s back and chest and a couple of cracked ribs. Painful injuries, but not lethal. He healed the worst of it, then told Elyan to wrap up in his cloak and keep still; he’d make a tea for the pain as soon as he could. 

He turned to Gaheris next, raising an eyebrow at Caradoc as though asking if he was going to allow his son to continue bleeding. Caradoc clenched his jaw and stepped away. 

Gaheris was too bleary-eyed to notice who was at his side, so Gwaine plopped down on the log beside him. “Don’t worry, lad. Merlin here won’t turn you into a newt. I promise. He might turn himself into a newt now and then, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Can you do that?” Gareth asked as he handed Merlin a bundle of bandages. “Turn yourself into a newt?”

“If I could, I might have saved myself some trouble in the past,” Merlin muttered. Gareth’s expression remained baffled. “No, I can’t turn myself into a newt. Or a cat or a dog or anything else. I’m stuck the way I am.”

“Can you fly?”

Merlin gave the boy a sidelong glance. A smile threatened to spread across his face. “Not even with a broom.”

“I think the storybooks are a bit rubbish, Gareth,” Gwaine chuckled. “I’ve never known a fair maiden who needed to be rescued from a tower, and it turns out that sorcerers can’t turn you into newts.”

“You have an animal familiar, though,” Gareth said brightly, eyeing Gaheris. The injured boy was doing his best to follow the conversation, though his eyes still wouldn’t focus. 

“There’s a daft little owl that sometimes flies into my room to attack his own reflection in the windows,” Merlin said. “If I had to rely on him for any kind of spellwork, I’d be as unhelpful as the sorcerers in your storybooks.” 

“I don’t know how useless they are,” Gareth said soberly. “At least they can fly.”

Even Gaheris laughed at that. 

Gwaine shot Gareth grateful look and thanked the gods he could think of that the boy knew enough to provide a distraction. Gaheris was not flinching away from Merlin’s touch, and his father loomed a little less. 

After swabbing the blood off Gaheris’s face, Merlin tilted the boy’s head back and looked into his eyes for a moment. Then he half-closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Gwaine caught the glint of gold under the sorcerer’s lashes. 

“Lord Caradoc,” Merlin said quietly, “Will you allow me to heal your son?”

“Isn’t that what--” Caradoc caught his breath and looked hard at Merlin. “You mean with magic?”

“I do.”

Caradoc closed his mouth. He narrowed his eyes at Merlin, then gazed upon his son. “What will happen to him if you don’t?”

“He has a head wound. Those are always tricky,” Merlin said. “He could be fine in the morning and shake this off like it was a scratch. Or he could go to sleep tonight and never wake up. If that happened, I might be able to help him, or I might not. It may be beyond my abilities.”

“But with magic…” Caradoc licked his lips and grimaced like he’d swallowed something bitter. 

For a moment, Gwaine understood the man. It was a hard thing to accept help from someone you hated, even if it was to aid someone you loved. As foolish as it was, pride lived in the heart of all men, and it was up to each man to swallow that pride in order to help another. 

The gathering had gone quiet. Everyone watched Caradoc, who was looking at his son. He took a long, slow breath and his shoulders sagged. “Do it, sorcerer. Help him.”

Merlin nodded and looked back at the boy, tilting his head back with a finger under his chin. “Gaheris, look at me.” His voice was soft, but a note of command rang in it like a bell. 

Gaheris blinked slowly and his eyes finally locked onto Merlin’s. The sorcerer’s lips moved in a near-silent chant, whispering words Gwaine could barely make out, but could sense the power within. The blue in Merlin’s eyes turned to molten gold and a pale light glowed around his fingers before flowing along the planes of Gaheris’s face, where it soaked in like rain falling onto dry sand. 

The boy took a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes widened and he looked around as though the world were a new thing he was seeing for the first time. 

“Look at me,” Merlin said. 

Gaheris looked back at him and jumped. 

“It’s all right. I’ve been here the whole time,” Merlin said as he tilted the boy’s head to get a better look at the rapidly healing wound. “You’re going to be fine. Just try not to let anyone hit you upside the head again.”

The boy nodded gingerly and touched the side of his head. He looked surprised when his fingers didn’t come away bloody. 

Merlin stood and swayed, catching his balance even as Gwaine held out a hand to steady him. “You alright?” 

“I’m fine. I have another patient to see about, then we can go.” 

The sorcerer looked steady and sounded sure of himself, but Gwaine rose and followed him anyway. Those dark circles under Merlin’s eyes weren’t getting any lighter. 

Bedivere and Percival stood over Pynell’s agent when he and Merlin approached. They were at ease, but each rested a hand on their sword hilts in case the wounded man suddenly rose and attacked, an unlikely event given that Lancelot had bound the man’s hands and feet. 

“How is he?” Merlin asked as he knelt next Lancelot.

The knight shrugged. “He’s pretending to be asleep. He’s not very convincing, though.”

And indeed, the man’s act lasted as long as it took for Merlin to pull a small knife out of his bag and begin slicing through the bloodied clothing. The man’s eyes flashed open and he shrank away from the sorcerer as far as his bonds and injury allowed. 

Merlin raised an eyebrow and shuffled forward. “I need to treat your injury. That crossbow bolt is still in your side. If I don’t take care of it, you could bleed to death now, or die from a fever later.”

Gwaine moved around to the man’s other side and knelt to keep him from shuffling away. “I’d lie back and let him take care of you now. It’ll be more pleasant for you. We’re meant to keep you alive anyway, so the king can question you back in Camelot.”

The man’s eyes flicked to Gwaine, then back to Merlin. A look of revulsion spread across his face. “Keep him away from me,” he hissed. 

“I won’t use magic, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Merlin said. “I’ll only use the same herbs and remedies as any--”

The man cursed and spat. A gob of saliva landed on Merlin’s cheek. 

Merlin rocked back onto his heels and closed his eyes. 

“Hey!” Gwaine lurched forward to do he knew not what. It was wrong to kick a man when he was down, but what if that man had spat in a friend’s face? A friend who was only trying to help?

“Calm down,” Lancelot said evenly. How did he always manage to be so serene? “He’s a healer. Do you want to die here?”

“If my other choice is letting him touch me, I’d rather die,” the man said. Spittle flew on the word ‘him’. He gave Merlin a venomous glare.

“Gag him,” Bedivere called. He and Leon were readying the horses. “We don’t have time to argue over niceties. You still willing to care for him, Merlin?”

Merlin wiped his face clean with the hem of his cloak. He nodded. “It’s my duty to care for people. Even those who don’t like me.”

“He’s a better man than you,” Gwaine muttered as he shoved an old rag into the man’s mouth and tied it off. The ferocity of his answering snarl was tempered by the rag. “Cheer up! Camelot’s dungeons are free of sorcerers. You won’t be near any while you wait for your hanging.” 

Merlin gave Gwaine a disapproving look. Gwaine shrugged. The sorcerer shook his head before turning to his patient. He peeled away the bloody clothes and prodded the skin around the bolt. “It’s not that deep. I can pull it without risking him bleeding to death, though there’s still a chance of infection. Getting him out of the cold will help. Getting him back to Camelot will be even better. Gareth, bring me some water. Lancelot, will you hold him down? I’m going to pull the bolt now.”

Lancelot nodded. Gwaine bent to help. More hands couldn’t hurt, especially when the patient would gladly stab the helpers if he could. 

Merlin wrapped steady fingers around the bolt’s fletching, unbothered by the blood welling around the wound and dripping to the ground. He braced his other hand against the man’s chest and pulled. 

The false bandit cried out through the gag, his chest heaving. Gwaine sat back as Merlin tossed the bolt aside and pressed bandages to his side. 

“I don’t suppose you know his name?” Bedivere said, looking to Caradoc. 

“He’s one of Pynell’s hangers-on. I remember him from Tintagel,” Caradoc said. “Cerid or Cerdic? Something like that.” 

The man stiffened at the mention of ‘Cerdic’. “Looks like we have a winner, don’t we, Cerdic?” Gwaine grinned down at him. His answer was a scowl. 

“Cerdic, is it?” Merlin asked softly as he applied a mess of herbs to the man’s side. “That’s an old name. _Ydych chi'n siarad yr hen iaith_?” 

Cerdic stiffened. His eyes grew round for a moment, then narrowed. He would have spat in Merlin’s face again, if he hadn’t been gagged. 

Merlin’s smile was sad as he made quick work of bandaging Cerdic’s side. “They say no one is more devout than a convert,” he said softly. 

Gwaine threw him a questioning look, but Merlin did not answer, too wrapped up in his work to notice. His movements were swift and sure, deft as ever in spite of his patient’s flinches. His efforts were more than Cerdic deserved, though no one would convince the sorcerer of it. 

He stood, pushing his hair out of his face to better see the rest of the company. Elyan was back on his feet, though Percival was checking his horse’s tack for him. Gareth was quietly explaining something to Gaheris; it must have been something exciting, for he was gesturing wildly and Gaheris’s eyes were round with surprise and delight. Those two would make fast friends if fate allowed it. He wasn’t surprised. Gareth had the guileless charm that attracted people and kept them close. It had already worked on Stilicho, the other healer’s boy who followed Gareth around the way flowers followed the sun. If Gaheris wasn’t careful, he’d find himself in the other boy’s orbit, too. 

There were worse fates than finding good friends, Gwaine mused. “Do you need a hand with anything, Merlin?” 

“No. We need to be careful getting him on a horse for the ride back. He’s patched up well enough for now. I’ll need to keep an eye on him in case of infection. For now, it’ll do everyone good to have a hot meal with a roof over our heads.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Bedivere said. “Can you ride, Elyan?”

“Is home at the end of the road?” Elyan asked.

“That it is,” Bedevere said, grinning.

“Then I can ride as long as we need to.”

“You say that now,” Gwaine said as he helped Percival boost the Elyan into the saddle. “Just wait ‘til you’ve been in the saddle for a few hours.”

“If I fall, give me a good kick on your way by to wake me up. I’ll follow after.”

Gwaine laughed and handed the reins up to Elyan, then moved to his own horse and climbed back into the saddle. Around him, the rest of the company was beginning to do the same. The boys, Gareth and Gaheris had their heads bent toward each other, already thick as thieves; Percival and Bedivere were pulling the false bandit Cerdic onto a horse and securing him so he couldn’t fling himself off to run away; Merlin had packed his gear and was climbing into the saddle with a distracted look about him, though he looked healthier than he had for weeks in spite of his magical exertions. The clean forest air must have done him some good. 

As for Lord Caradoc, he was already mounted and looking back and forth between his son and the sorcerer who had healed him. His expression was impassive. Impossible to say just what he was thinking, but thinking he was. 

Gwaine nudged his horse toward Caradoc’s. “What’s so important that you risked life, limb, and your son to traipse across half a kingdom in the winter?” he asked. Arthur had been secretive about the nature of their mission, and while he was certain Merlin and Bedivere knew, neither of them had said a word. Linnet had passed on some story she’d had from Elayne, but if that story had been more than a rumor, they’d have been well on their way to Blackheath and Amata beyond that. 

Caradoc gave him a sidelong glance before his gaze flicked to Merlin again. “If you don’t know, it’s not my place to say.”

“Leave it be, Gwaine. You’ll know soon enough,” Bedivere said. “We’ll be back in Camelot in a few days. You can satisfy your curiosity then.”


	2. Chapter 2

An easy ride brought them back to the inn from the night before as a bank of heavy clouds built up in the west, hiding the setting sun and drenching the land in a gloomy fog. The warm lights glowing in the inn’s narrow windows cheered everyone up, though Lancelot was sure the clouds portended a miserable day tomorrow. Still, they would have at least one night with a roof over their heads and a fire in the hearth. It was more than Leon and Elyan had had for a while, and both were dead on their feet by the time they wiped up the last of their soup with the last of their bread. 

Those two were given the available beds this time, and they trudged to them as soon as the meal was over. Merlin followed-- to check on Elyan, he’d said, though it also gave him a chance to speak quietly with Mistress Anwen once more. Lancelot noticed she’d warmed up to the sorcerer. The handful of silver he gave her didn’t hurt. 

There were no musicians to lighten the mood in the common room, and the old men who might have told stories late into the night trundled home after their second mug of ale, leaving the knights and Merlin alone in the darkened common room with Lord Caradoc and his son. Their prisoner had been locked in a hastily emptied storeroom. With the fire dying down to embers and only one oil lamp still burning, there was little to do but bed down for the night. Lancelot unfurled his bedroll and undid his boots. Beside him, Merlin wrapped up in his cloak and flopped down onto his own bedding.

“You’re not planning any late night excursions, are you?” Gwaine asked softly. 

Merlin’s first answer was a wide yawn and a shake of his head. “All the gods could knock on my skull tonight, and I don’t think there would be enough of me to answer. “ He lay back, resting his head on his saddle bag as Cabal settled next to him with a wide doggie yawn of his own.

“Late night excursions?” Lancelot asked.

“Didn’t he tell you about it? He went for a walk in the middle of the night, wound up in a snowdrift somewhere, and came back cackling about birds. First thing I knew about it was when I woke up to find his bed empty and no idea where he’d gone,” Gwaine said, his tone sharper than he intended.

“I told you. I had to see a woman about a bird,” Merlin said.

“You told me after you came back.”

“At least I told you.” Merlin’s voice was thick with sleep.

“Wandering around in the middle of the night is part of what makes Merlin who he is. Haven’t you gotten used to it by now?” Lancelot asked.

Gwaine huffed. “Next time you can be the one who wakes up and finds him missing.”

Lancelot waited for Merlin to voice an objection, but there was no sound but the sorcerer’s soft and steady breathing. 

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about him disappearing tonight.”

“I’ll believe that in the morning,” Gwaine muttered.

He looked over at Gwaine, but the other knight was little more than a shape in the darkness. “Blackheath wasn’t your fault. Are you ever going to stop blaming yourself for it?”

“If I can ever forget the sound of his screaming, I might be able to forgive myself.” There was a rustling as he turned away. 

In the deepening quiet, Lancelot sighed and stared up into the darkness. And while there were only the faint sounds of the men’s breathing and the delicate skittering of mice in the walls, he lay awake for a long time, wondering if Merlin would rise in the night and disappear into the snowy woods for a meeting with strange spirits only he could see.

But the sorcerer did not wake, and finally Lancelot, too, fell into a dreamless slumber.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


A week’s journey saw them return, sodden and ill-tempered, to within sight of the gates of Camelot. The rain had begun halfway through the first full day of their ride home and continued in a constant fall, ranging from a miserable drizzle to a steady downpour that threatened the health of man, horse, and dog, killing their good cheer outright. 

Merlin was surprised that none of the arguments between the men had come to blows. He had thought Lord Caradoc, at least, would make remarks about the magical fires Merlin lit to ward off the nightly chill and damp. But Caradoc’s complaints had grown fewer and farther between as they approached the city, and once it had come into view on the horizon, he had fallen silent. Merlin had sensed his unease. It was like a mouse that catches the eye of a particularly fearsome cat and holds perfectly still in the hopes that the cat will forget it’s there. 

Gaheris noticed his father’s grim mood and mirrored it in spite of Gareth, who was the only one who brightened at the sight of Camelot’s high towers. Youth made it easy to bounce back from the long, dreary days in the saddle and his smiles, few as they were, brightened Merlin’s spirits. Though if they could have warmed his bones as well, he would be more grateful for them. 

The guards at the gates recognized Leon and the other knights once they pushed their hoods back, and the great doors opened with a rumbling groan. Then they were home, passing through the first narrow streets beneath the eyes of Camelot’s soldiers, who saluted the knights and Lord Caradoc. They ignored Merlin like they would ignore a beggar on the street, but he wasn’t troubled. The prospect of a hot meal tonight and his own warm bed outweighed any annoyance at the disrespect sent his way. 

The horses perked up when they scented their home stable. They, too, were eager to be out of the rain, and when Astor picked up her pace to a trot, Merlin let her. No one was in the streets, and the sooner a farrier could look at her feet, the sooner he would be certain that she and the other horses wouldn’t suffer from hoof rot or strained tendons. He had done what he could, but he had learned to heal people, not horses. He might have missed something out of ignorance.

Once they reached the stables, he slipped out of the saddle and managed not to fall to the ground in a patch of mud. Cabal was waiting for him, ears and tail down and wishing for his own warm bed as much as Merlin was. “Go on back to the kennels. They’ll have a nice warm house for you and something for you to eat. If you come with me, the servants will just yell at you for being wet.” The hound whined, but his ears perked up at the thought of food and when Merlin gestured for him to go, he scurried off toward the royal kennels. 

Merlin sighed, wishing that the rest of his day involved nothing more than a hot meal and a warm bed. He handed Astor’s reins to a stableboy, pulled his packs off the saddle, and waited long enough for Lancelot and Gwaine to do the same before turning toward the castle. The patter of rain sounded loud against his hood, like a swarm of bees he could not escape.

He stopped and looked up at Arthur’s window. Though he saw only the reflection of the gray sky in the glass, he knew the king was watching them. Fat drops of icy rain splattered into his face, so he lowered his head and hurried for the door.

“Merlin! Wait up! What’s your hurry?” Gwaine called after him. 

Merlin paused and looked back, giving his friend a tired smile. “I’ve been cold and wet for a week, and for the first time in longer than that I’ll be able to sleep in my own bed and feel like I’m warm enough.” Not to mention that he could see Gaius and Arthur and Gwen again and be away from the damnable noise of rain. His smile widened. “I’m surprised I’m not the one following you. Linnet is here, and you only want to be where she is.”

“Do you see me dallying?” Gwaine grinned. “I thought you had a mind to see Niniane again. She has the prettiest face in Camelot. After Guinevere and Linnet, of course.”

“Of course,” Merlin said. His tone was the driest thing around. “But she won’t want to see me while I’m wearing half the kingdom’s mud and smelling like a horse and a wet dog. Besides. Arthur will want to speak with Lord Caradoc as soon as he’s had a chance to bathe and change his clothes.” 

“And what will Lord Caradoc be speaking to Arthur about? I know you know, but you’ve been very close about it since we left.”

“And I won’t speak of it now. You’ll find out soon enough,” Merlin said. If his gut feeling was right, the army of Camelot might be marching on one of its own before the first spring flowers blossomed.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Arthur called upon all his self-control to keep from fidgeting while he waited. He sat on the throne in the grand hall, dressed in his finest clothing with Guinevere, equally resplendent in a red gown, seated at his right hand. He had seen Merlin and the knights arrive at the courtyard with Lord Caradoc in tow, and while he had wanted to see them immediately, he gave them time to eat, bathe, and warm themselves. Caradoc’s message would wait another hour, and Arthur had seen, even from his window, how pale Merlin had been. Pynell would answer for it if any of the men he had sent to fetch Caradoc grew sick from their long ride through snow and rain. 

Beside him, Guinevere heaved a quiet sigh. Arthur recognized it for what it was— her attempt to still her nerves. She was as anxious to see Elyan as he was to hear Caradoc’s message. Moreso, probably. 

One of the side doors creaked open. Leon emerged, followed by Elyan and Bedivere. Merlin trailed behind them like a shadow, taking a place next to Gaius. He bent and whispered with the old physician, then straightened, looked to Arthur, and nodded once. If it was to tell him their mission was completed or that he was all right, Arthur could not say. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps it was neither. At least there was color in his face now.

Leon, Elyan, and Bedivere approached. They looked none the worse for the wear, and Leon took his place at Arthur’s left. “He’ll be here in a moment, Sire,” he said softly. 

Arthur gave him a sharp nod. “It’s good to finally see you again, Leon.”

“Likewise,” Leon said. “Elyan is hoping to speak with Her Majesty when this is done.”

“Of course,” Arthur said. Beside him, Guinevere smiled, but Arthur was certain he heard her mutter a soft, ‘he’d better’ under her breath. He squeezed her hand, then took a long look around the room. There stood Gaius and Merlin, close at hand. Lady Drusilla and Geoffrey of Monmouth stood by them, and the rest of the privy council was down the row. Lining the other side of the hall were the high lords and ladies of Camelot. Knights stood by each pillar, including Lancelot, Gwaine, and Percival, who would finally get to know what was happening. Then there was Gareth, who had moved to stand beside Bedivere, the sigil of Amata on a fine chain around his neck, a subtle reminder that while he might be Arthur’s squire, the boy stood as a representative of his father’s kingdom. 

Arthur’s uneasiness faded. He was in the heart of his kingdom, surrounded by his greatest friends and allies. Whatever Caradoc had to say, he could withstand it. 

There was a pounding at the door and a herald entered, knocked his staff against the ground, and proclaimed, “Your Majesty, Lord Caradoc of Celliwig and his son, Gaheris.” 

“We will see them,” Arthur said, his voice ringing through the hall. 

The great doors swung open to reveal Caradoc and his son. It had been years since Arthur had seen the man. As one of the eastern border lords, it was his duty to guard against attacks from Rheged, whether they were bandits or raiders hired by the king of Rheged— Cenred for a time, and now Urien. Arthur’s memory was of a man in his prime, tall and proud, a loyal liegeman of his father. 

Caradoc was still tall and proud, but the years had not been kind to him. He had grown gray and wiry with age, and the past few weeks had rendered him gaunt and wolfish. Dark circles discolored the skin under his eyes. Under Arthur’s gaze, the steel in his spine dissolved. He hardly made two steps into the hall when he fell to a knee, gesturing for his son to do the same. 

“You have come a long way to speak with us, Lord Caradoc. What is it you wish to tell us?” Arthur said.

Caradoc went pale and bowed his head. He mumbled a syllable, then cleared his throat. “Your most gracious Majesty, fool that I am, you must forgive me.”

Arthur clenched his jaw. Guinevere’s fingers tightened around his. “Approach, Lord Caradoc. It is difficult to judge a man from such a distance.”

“Sire.” Caradoc bowed his head in supplication and rose, walking forward until he was a few feet from the throne. Then he dropped to both knees, head still bowed, unwilling to meet Arthur’s gaze. Behind him, Gaheris adopted the same pose. It did not escape Arthur’s mind that the sons of traitorous lords often shared their fathers’ fates. The boy must be thinking the same thing.

Caradoc wet his lips. “Majesty, Dread Lord, you must forgive this miserable fool. I called myself a friend of Pynell, listened to his counsel, agreed with his arguments, but-” he broke off, glanced at Merlin, licked his lips, and started again. “But I cannot follow where he means to go, Sire. I disagree with your decision to legalize magic, but I am a loyal subject of the crown. I love this land, Sire, and I could never betray your family.”

Guinevere's fingers tightened over his once again. He kept the anger out of his voice, for he began to guess what Caradoc would say next. “And what does Pynell intend to do, My Lord?”

Caradoc raised his eyes to meet Arthur’s. They were wide and frightened. “Sire, he means to raise an army and make war upon Your Majesty’s throne.” Though Caradoc’s voice was hoarse it carried throughout the hall, ushering a brief silence before shocked gasps and low mutterings broke it. 

Arthur raised a hand to silence the crowd, glancing at those on the privy council and noting the unsurprised expressions on their faces. He looked for Merlin and saw the sorcerer beside Gaius, eyes lowered, looking like he wanted to disappear into the shadows. “We are disappointed, but not surprised by your news, My Lord. The Lord Pynell has long been a thorn in our side. When does he intend to raise this army, and who supports him in this folly?”

His warning delivered, Caradoc wilted further, his eyes firmly on the floor. Behind him, Gaheris kept his head bowed but looked at his father with frightened eyes. “In-” Caradoc’s voice broke. He cleared his throat. “In the spring, Sire. After the fields have been sown. He believes King Urien will hold to the accord he signed last autumn and not make war upon Camelot this year.”

Arthur wanted to laugh. He would have declared Pynell mad for believing both that Arthur was a puppet of Merlin’s and that Urien would hold to his word if the man had not spent the entirety of Arthur’s reign-- and even before Uther’s death-- opposing him at every turn. That his hatred would lead to treason was inevitable. It had only been a question of when. 

“Then we must respond to this threat before it comes to fruition. Lord Pynell must not be allowed to turn Camelot against itself. With the Saxons threatening the shores of the Five Kingdoms, his actions only serve to make us more vulnerable to this threat. I will not allow that. I thank you, Lord Caradoc, for bringing me this news and at such risk to yourself and your son. But understand that because you listened to Pynell’s counsel for so long, you have lost much of my trust in you. It will take much time and effort for you to regain it. I will have quarters made ready for you and your son here in the keep, and you will remain there under guard until I call for you.”

If Caradoc slouched any lower, he would be a puddle on the floor. “Thank you, Sire,” he said, his voice shaking. If it had been Uther on the throne, he would have spent the rest of his few remaining days in the dungeons. He had, no doubt, expected the same treatment from Arthur. 

“I am not my father, Lord Caradoc,” Arthur said, letting some of the coldness drain from his voice. “I will not condemn you for your thoughts or beliefs. It is your actions I will judge, and despite the dangers you faced, you chose to put aside your misgivings and do what was best for Camelot. I will not forget that.”

“Sire,” Caradoc rasped, his head nearly touching the floor as he bowed still lower. Behind him, Gaheris’s eyes were round. The boy would have some thinking to do this night. It was a hard lesson for a boy to learn, that his father was fallible.

For now, though, Arthur would provide the pair with comfortable confinement until he decided their fates. He nodded to Bedivere and Lancelot, gesturing for them to escort Caradoc and his son to the chambers set aside for them. “I will speak with you later, My Lord, after I have spoken with the privy council and come to a decision as to what to do with you and with Lord Pynell.”

The whispers in the background erupted into loud gossip and exclamations as speculation ran rampant through the court. Arthur ignored them all. Now that Caradoc’s message was delivered, there was nothing he could do to stop the gossip and intrigue. What he needed to do, and what he intended to do next was to decide what to do about Pynell now that the man had been named a traitor. 

He strode out of the great hall with Guinevere at his side and Leon a step behind. They left the noise of the court behind, shutting it behind the heavy oaken door of the council chamber. Arthur dropped into his chair at the head of the table, rested his elbows on its polished surface, and rubbed his eyes. “You’ve been by his side for the past few weeks, Leon. Tell me what you think of all this?”

“I believe him,” Leon said. “The gossip at Tintagel was tilting against you, Sire. Not because you’re not your father, but because of Merlin. Many of the men-- mostly Pynell’s men-- think that Merlin has either put you under some sort of spell or--” he broke off and cast an apologetic glance at Guinevere.

“Yes, I’ve heard those rumors.” Arthur rolled his eyes. He knew that some men would lay with other men. In the closeness of the barracks or on dark nights before battle, certain desires were bound to surface no matter how ardently the priests spoke against them. But if Merlin had ever harbored those sorts of feelings, Arthur had never noticed it, despite the sorcerer having been a near-constant companion for so long. “Such rumors are bound to circulate, regardless of the evidence to the contrary. And if Merlin had put me under some sort of spell to get me to legalize magic, then it surely wouldn’t have taken all winter to reverse my father’s law.”

Guinevere chuckled as she poured him a cup of wine. “They say you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. The same goes for men. You can lead them to the truth, but you can’t make them believe it.”

“If only,” Arthur said softly. The wine was a good vintage, but it could not wash the bitter taste from his mouth. 

The door creaked open and Lady Drusilla stormed through, followed moments later by Gaius, Geoffrey, and the other members of the privy council. Merlin was not among them, Arthur noted with surprise. True, he was not officially a member of the council, but he had been a part of Arthur’s inner circle for so long it was hard to imagine him not being there. Someday soon, Arthur would have to remedy that. But it would not be today. 

Today, he had a lord of the realm threatening rebellion.

Drusilla spoke first, hardly waiting to sit down before venting her opinions. “Clearly, Arthur, you must raise the army of Camelot and ride on Tintagel before that traitorous fool can ride for the eastern marches with his lies and cause even more men to fall. The gall of that man, to threaten to split Camelot asunder while the Saxons threaten us more every year. And with the rumor that that fool King Urien is hiring Saxon mercenaries to bolster his numbers. Pagan mercenaries, at that. It will come back to haunt him, mark my words. No good ever came of hiring a mercenary.”

“I feel I should point out that many of Camelot’s citizens could be considered pagans,” Gaius noted mildly. 

“Oh, you know what I mean, Gaius,” Drusilla waved away Gaius’s comment as though she were brushing away a buzzing fly. “At least the old gods of Albion are familiar, in their way. We know what to expect of them. What can we expect from the followers of strange gods from across the sea?” 

“I think that’s a fair question,” Guinevere said evenly. “Geoffrey, does your library have any information at all about the Saxons? How do they fight? What do they believe? Anything?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “I have spent the winter searching the archives, Your Majesty, and I am sorry to say that we know little of the Saxons save that they have been raiding along our shores for nearly two generations. What we have are descriptions of their brutality, mentionings of a thunder god, and stories of how the people along the so-called Saxon Shore have come to be thankful for storms at night, for it means there will be no raids.”

“Urien seems willing to subject his people to the mercy of the Saxons.” Arthur shook his head.

“And we will be forced to deal with them crossing into Camelot from Rheged and striking at us with a kingdom torn asunder if we don’t deal with Lord Pynell before the planting is complete,” Drusilla forced them back to the issue at hand, her voice filled with scorn at the mention of Pynell.

“It would be best, Sire, if we set out for Tintagel as soon as possible. He knows that Caradoc’s defected from his cause. He’ll be setting out for the eastern marches as soon as he can,” Leon said. “He knows that if he doesn’t rally enough men to his cause, he’ll have lost the battle before it’s begun. Speed will be our ally. And I fear what he will do to the men I left behind.”

“Agreed. How many men could he reasonably pull from Tintagel to take east with him?” Arthur asked. 

Leon shrugged. “He had, perhaps two hundred soldiers left after the battle to take the castle. If he wants to leave the place fortified with enough men to guard that part of the coast-- assuming he leaves the fifty men of my household alive-- he could take, perhaps, seventy-five with him? Tintagel has the benefit of the sea cliffs to defend it, but it would be a mistake to leave too few there if the Saxons come calling. Pynell may be a traitor, but he’s not a fool.”

“No, he’s not,” Arthur said. “So we must ride out with a force large enough to overwhelm his men before he has a chance to rally the people along the border to his cause. With the spring planting approaching, there won’t be many men willing to answer his call. Not if they want to feed their families next winter.”

“Fortunately, the knights of Camelot don’t need to worry about plowing fields,” Gaius said. “They are prepared to ride when you are.”

“You should send an advance guard ahead to intercept Pynell,” Drusilla said. “Strike when he least expects it.”

“No.” Arthur straightened and lifted his chin. “We will not ride in secret. Let it be known throughout the land that Arthur of Camelot rides to meet a traitor to the realm. Then we shall see if the lords of the east are loyal subjects of the crown, or if they will meet with the fate of all traitors.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


“Are you not going to eat your soup, or are you just waiting for it to get cold?”

Merlin started and glanced around to find the source of the voice that roused him from his thoughts. Gaius stood across the table from him. A wry smile played upon his lips, but there was a glint of worry in his eyes. “I guess I’m not that hungry,” Merlin said, poking at the bits of carrot and barley in the bowl. He scooped up a spoonful, eyed it warily, then put it down and pushed the bowl away. “You can have the rest if you want it.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Gaius reached across the table to place a hand on Merlin’s forehead before he could dodge away. “You don’t have a fever.”

Merlin scowled and touched his fingers to the back of Gaius’s hand. “And your cough hasn’t improved since I left.”

Gaius snorted and took the bowl away, dumping its contents back into the pot for later. “You didn’t attend the meeting of the privy council. Arthur wondered where you were.”

“I’m not a member of the privy council.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” Gaius said, raising an eyebrow. “He’ll want to speak with you in the morning about Pynell. Now that he’s fomenting a revolt, Pynell is no longer an irritating citizen of Camelot. He’s a wanted traitor. Arthur wants you to scry him to find out where he’s going.”

Merlin absently rubbed his wrist and stared at the darkness beyond the window. “He’s so far away; I’m not sure I could find him. And it’s exhausting. But if it will bring an end to all of this…” he trailed off and rubbed his temples.

“I think it would help. Now is not the time for Camelot to be at war with itself.”

“Is there ever a good time for a kingdom to be at war with itself?”

Gaius snorted. “You should tell Pynell that.”

“He wouldn’t listen to me if I told him rain was wet.” Merlin pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The old numbness was returning to his hands, and he clasped them on the tabletop to hide their trembling. 

The motion was not lost on Gaius. “Your hands are bothering you again,” he stated, then turned to gather herbs and a salve from the shelves. He tossed the herbs into a pot of water and returned to the table with the salve. “You should have stayed behind and let Blaise go instead. This rain and cold aren’t good for anyone.”

“I needed to go,” Merlin said. He wanted to tell Gaius of his midnight encounter with the Goddess, but he could not find the words for it and was not sure himself what it meant. How could he express to another what his own mind could not comprehend? He decided not to speak of it. “Gaheris needed more healing than a poultice could provide. Cerdic did, too, in the end, though he wouldn’t admit it.”

“Cerdic?”

“Pynell’s man. He’d been sent to kill Caradoc and Gaheris. He was injured in the scuffle at the ford. He developed a fever and would have died, except I used magic to heal him. I knew Arthur would want to speak to him, and I,” he broke off, frowning. “I sensed something of the old ways about him. Not that he would admit to it. He follows the new religion, just like Arthur, though his view of the world is decidedly less merciful.”

“There is no one more zealous than a convert. I’d be surprised if you got anything but insults from him,” Gaius said. He took Merlin’s hand in his own, his aged fingers dealing with Merlin’s gloves better than the warlock could, then gently unwound the bandages and frowned. The bands of scarred skin around Merlin’s wrists were slowly fading, but after days spent on the road riding through rain and snow, the scars were puffy and red. “It’s no wonder you’re not feeling well, with that and the cold. After I put some salve on these, you’ll drink the tea that’s steeping and go right to bed.”

A dry chuckle was all Merlin managed. What would people think of the old physician ordering a powerful warlock around like he was a little boy being sent to bed without supper? 

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say anything,” Merlin said. 

Gaius snorted, but the eyebrow lowered. He smoothed the salve across Merlin’s wrists, gently rubbing it in. Its coolness washed through him, loosening tight muscles and easing the pain in his head. He let his eyes drift shut and managed to not let his head sink to rest on the table. He sighed. “Did I cause this?” 

“Cause what?” 

“This business with Pynell,” Merlin murmured. “All his hatred is focused on me. He accuses me of bending Arthur to my will through… every means available. Now he’s set on taking up arms against his king. If it weren’t for me, Pynell might not be on the edge of treason.” 

“Merlin,” Gaius sighed, though the movement of his fingers against Merlin’s hand did not falter. “Lord Pynell has always hated magic, even before the Purge. When he was young, he was devout. Perhaps too devout. He saw demons everywhere, and when something went wrong-- a poor harvest, a lamed horse-- he blamed it on the followers of the old religion. They had magic, he’d say. They had power over the invisible forces of the world. They must be to blame for every bad thing that happened in Camelot. The Purge gave him an excuse to strike out against those he feared and hated. Instead of lessening his anger, it only inflamed it until he was one of Uther’s most ardent supporters. The old king could do no wrong in Pynell’s eyes. When it seemed that Arthur would follow in his father’s footsteps, he was even more pleased.”

Gaius paused to take Merlin’s other hand in his and gently set to work with the salve. “And then one day, Uther named a peasant boy the prince’s servant, and from that day Arthur began to change. Over time, you showed Arthur that arrogance is not strength, and mercy is not a weakness. This has made Camelot a better place, but Pynell is too set in his ways to change. He may believe himself to be a loyal servant of Camelot, but he is blind to everything but his own wants. The only person to blame for Lord Pynell’s treachery is Pynell himself. “

Though it was true, it was not easy to absolve himself of blame. Perhaps in the morning after he had slept, when the pain was gone from his wrists and back and the light of a new day was bright in his eyes, he would be able to think clearly. 

“Merlin?”

“Hmm?” 

“Are you awake?”

“Yes.” He opened his eyes and discovered that his head had come to rest on the table. When had that happened? 

“I think you had better go to bed. You should sleep in here. It’s warmer than your room. I’ll tend to your back once you’ve fallen asleep.” Gaius took his arm and steadied Merlin when he swayed on his feet, helped him pull his tunic off, then settled him into the bed nearest the hearth. Gaius pulled the screen between Merlin and the waning fire, and the old physician’s shifting silhouette cast shadows through the holes in the screen, their ever-changing shapes reminding Merlin of the Goddess in the stone circle.

He sat up and pushed the blankets away, trying to focus on the shadows around him, as though that would help him fix the Goddess’s shifting form into a single, describable entity he could tell Gaius about. But he could not fix the memory of Her, even inside his mind. His vision swam. 

“Lie down, Merlin. You’re white as a ghost. Whatever it is, you can tell me in the morning.”

He drew in a breath of air like he’d been drowning, shuddered, and lay back against the pillows. He dutifully closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift and they pulled him away and down into the depths of sleep.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The next day dawned so brightly the previous day’s events seemed like they had happened ages ago. Arthur had woken to sunlight streaming through the window. Guinevere was curled up beside him, sleeping peacefully. He focused on her, on the sunlight, enshrining it in memory for these perfect moments were rare and ended too soon. 

Sure enough, he was called to duty minutes later. So many things required a king’s attention, from Father Gildas’s plans for the monastery being rebuilt to permitting one of his knights to marry. But one question superseded them all: What would he do about Lord Pynell? Or rather, when would Arthur be leading the expedition to arrest the man? And where would they go to find them? 

The first answer was simple: As soon as possible. The second answer would, he hoped, be only slightly more difficult to answer. Now that Pynell had been declared a traitor, Merlin might find the task of scrying the man to be less distasteful. He only had to broach the subject with the sorcerer, though that was proving harder than he thought. 

Gareth and Erec normally spent their mornings at lessons, learning history or mathematics or whatever subject Merlin thought was important. But both boys had shown up at his chambers not long after they left, declaring that Gaius had shooed them away. Merlin, it seemed, was still abed and the old physician wouldn’t wake him. 

The boys were happy to spend the morning in the practice ring with swords in hand instead of with their noses buried in books, while Arthur had worried that Merlin had taken ill on the way home and was now too sick to get up. The sorcerer might claim he was healthy, but Arthur knew the winter had taken a heavier toll upon Merlin than it had anyone else, except perhaps Gaius. 

He paused before knocking on Gaius’s door to ponder which version of himself would walk into the room. Would it be Arthur the man who was concerned about his friend? Or would it be Arthur the king who needed his sorcerer to See for him? 

The decision did not take long. In this, Arthur had to be a king before he could be a friend. He needed to know where Pynell planned to go before the man could tear the kingdom asunder. There were more souls in the realm to worry about than Merlin’s. 

Arthur sighed and knocked, pushing the door open when he heard Gaius’s muffled reply. 

“Good morning, Sire,” Gaius said softly, giving him a weary smile. “Are you here for Merlin?”

“I am,” Arthur said. He followed the physician’s gaze to the bed near the hearth. His heart skipped a beat when he saw a familiar head of black hair poking out from a mess of blankets. Only the sickest of Gaius’s patients slept in that bed, and there lay Merlin.

“He’s all right,” Gaius said before Arthur could ask. “There’s been no fever either last night or today. The rain and the travel exhausted him, and I thought he would be more comfortable here than in his room. He needed the rest, so I let him sleep.” 

Arthur chuckled but held his tongue. If only his courtiers would be so polite when he needed his rest. “I hate to wake him, but…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say next. 

“You want his abilities.”

“Yes.”

Gaius nodded and sighed, a cough rattling in his chest. He turned to the figure in the bed and gently shook Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin, wake up.”

The sorcerer jerked awake and sat up. The blanket slipped from his shoulders, revealing the mess of marbled scar tissue on his back. Arthur flinched. While he had helped Gaius clean Merlin’s injuries more than once he would never get used to seeing those scars, nor grow accustomed to the memories they inspired. 

Merlin looked around blearily and pulled a blanket over his shoulders. “Why’d you let me sleep so long?” he mumbled.

“Because you needed to rest,” Gaius said. “The boys can do without lessons for another day. But Arthur needs you now, so you’d best get up and get dressed. And eat something before you go haring off to do his bidding.” The physician looked at Arthur when he said that, raising a bristling eyebrow. 

Merlin made an incoherent noise and untangled himself from the blankets, keeping one of them wrapped around his shoulders before disappearing into his room and closing the door behind himself.

Gaius gestured for Arthur to sit while he rummaged about, setting bread and butter on the table alongside a bowl of small apples. He offered the king a cup of something that smelled like it would clear even the most sleep-fogged heads after one sip. Arthur declined and looked around the room, at the bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling, the shelves lined with heavy books, the rows of medicine bottles with their precise labels. Uther had often wondered why Gaius chose to live up in this lonely tower so far from the heart of the castle, but Arthur thought it the most comfortable place in the whole city. 

But as he watched the aging physician shuffle around the room, stifling his coughs with his back bent and fingers swollen with age, he wondered if it might be time to find Gaius some chambers closer to the heart of the castle where he would not have to climb so many stairs. Warmer rooms to which the servants could deliver hot meals. Arthur resolved to look into the matter. Perhaps he would find new chambers for Merlin, too. Unless the sorcerer wanted to stay in the barren little room that granted him solitude, if not comfort. 

Merlin emerged from that room a few minutes later looking alert, though not without shadows under his eyes. He was clean-shaven and wore the fine coat Guinevere had made him with the dragons of Camelot stitched in silver upon the sleeves. He stopped and gave Arthur a confused look. “How long have you been waiting for me?”

“I could say all morning,” Arthur said wryly, and then waved it off at Merlin’s chagrined look. “But I had plenty to do. Sit down and eat before Gaius has both our hides.”

“What do you want me to do?” Merlin asked. He sat across from Arthur and cut a piece of bread from the crusty loaf on the table and spread a bit of butter on it. 

Arthur waited until Merlin had taken a few bites of his bread. “Pynell is a traitor. He intends to raise an army to ride against me. I need to know where he is and where he plans to go. Word has it that King Urien is in league with Saxon mercenaries, and if they arrive on the border to find Camelot at war with itself, we’ll be overrun.”

“And you want me to find him for you,” Merlin said flatly. He lowered his eyes.

Arthur nodded. “Yes. I know you have reservations about doing so, but Merlin, the safety of the kingdom is at stake. Will you do this for me? For Camelot?”

The sorcerer sighed and picked at his bread until it was little more than a pile of crumbs fit only for birds. “I knew I would have to eventually. I never wanted to spy on the people of Camelot.”

There was nothing Arthur could say to that, save that Pynell had made himself an enemy of the kingdom. They both already knew that. “I never thought you wanted to. What surprises me is that you don’t want vengeance against Pynell. The man’s spoken against you at every turn, accused you of everything short of murder. Hell, Merlin, he tried to kill you.”

“And how would it reflect on my own kind if I sought vengeance? People whisper and make warding signs against me when I go to the market. What more would they do if they heard I was indulging in a personal grudge against one of Camelot’s highest lords?” Merlin shook his head. “I don’t get to think about myself in matters like this. There are people-- followers of the old religion-- in the city, out there in the countryside, who survived the Purge. Magic may be legal again, their beliefs may be legal again, but they’re still afraid. I won’t be responsible for igniting more hatred against them. Pynell has committed a crime against the realm. He will face the King’s justice for it, not mine.”

Something unfathomable burned in Merlin’s gaze, but before Arthur could begin to parse it the room fell into shadow. Merlin stood and strode to his room, leaving the king to wonder what turmoil raged beneath the sorcerer’s serene exterior. Magic he may have, but he was a man like any other, prone to the same passions and frailties. 

Arthur looked out the window where clouds had covered the sun and wished he did not have to ask this of his friend.

“He’s not angry at you,” Gaius said softly. Arthur looked up sharply. He had forgotten the physician was there. “But is he allowed to be angry about the circumstances of his life and his place in it.”

“I know,” Arthur said. “I wish I could change things.”

“You will. But it will take time.”

“Yes.” Some days he felt as though he had a thousand years to do anything his heart desired. Other days, he felt the relentless beat of time hammering away at him, urging him to do everything now, before it was too late. 

Merlin returned from his room, his usual serenity in place and a piece of silver glinting between his fingers. He straightened the blankets on the bed and sat down cross-legged on it while Arthur carried his chair to sit nearby. Gaius bustled about before he, too, settled into a chair at the side of the bed. 

When he was a child, Arthur had imagined that sorcerers could wield lightning and command the winds as though they were weapons like swords and shields, tools to be used and then put aside when the work was done. He never thought there would be a cost, never imagined that commanding the wind could wear someone down like they had done a week’s work in an hour.

Merlin pressed the silver disc between his palms. “He’s a long way from here. This would be easier if I had something of his.”

“We have his son,” Arthur said.

Merlin raised an eyebrow at him. He had been taking lessons from Gaius. “That’s not the sort of thing I mean. It would be faster if I had a bit of his hair or clothing. But I don’t, and he is far away, so this will take a while.”

“Be careful,” Gaius said sternly.

A wry grin was his only response. Then Merlin took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His back straightened and his shoulders went rigid. His expression was calm though his face looked like it had been carved from clay, as though the animating spirit had fled, leaving behind the mere shape of a man.

Arthur shivered. Perhaps that was what had happened. All Arthur knew of magic was what Merlin had explained to him, and that felt like a droplet next to his ocean of ignorance. 

“Are you sure he’ll be alright?” Arthur whispered. 

Gaius’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “His powers have few limits, and so he pushes himself beyond the borders of my knowledge. He’s committed to this course, and he’ll see it through to the end, no matter the cost to him.”

Arthur heard-- or he thought he heard-- a faint reproach in the old physician’s voice. He looked down at his hands like he was a boy being scolded. “I wouldn’t ask it of him if I didn’t think it was necessary. If I could send couriers--”

“I know, Arthur. And he knows that, too.” Gaius stood and patted Arthur on the shoulder. “I’ll make us something hot to drink while we wait.”

They each drank two cups of the tea Gaius made, a faintly bitter brew sweetened with honey that sluiced the sour film from Arthur’s mouth. The old physician filled cups with the same brew for Merlin, dumping them out when it cooled and he still had not opened his eyes.

A sheen of sweat covered Merlin’s face. His pallor had deepened, his features grew more rigid, and his breathing remained shallow and even. The sun began its descent toward evening, and the room fell into shadow. Gaius did not light the candles or stoke the fire in the hearth. 

Arthur had long since begun pacing and was on his fifth circuit of the room when light flared from between Merlin’s hands. The sorcerer gasped like he was drowning. Gaius wrapped an arm around him as he sagged, hastily pulling a blanket around Merlin’s shaking shoulders. Merlin buried his face in his hands. The silver disc fell to the floor and rolled away. Arthur caught it, and it was icy cold.

“Are you all right?” he asked as he dropped into his chair next to the bed.

“I’ll be fine,” Merlin slurred. He was shivering despite the blanket. Gaius pressed a cup of steaming tea into his hands, then disappeared behind the screen to stoke the fire. 

“Take your time.”

Merlin nodded and rubbed his eyes. His breathing slowed and evened out, and he took his hand away from his eyes to clutch at the blanket. “Venta Belgarum. He’s going to Venta Belgarum.” 

“You’re sure of this?”

“As sure as I am of anything. The--” he broke off, coughing, then sipped his tea and cleared his throat. “Whatever was stopping me from scrying Leon and Elyan over the winter isn’t as bad as it was. I saw Pynell on the road with his men. He said nothing, but some of them were complaining about taking such a long journey on short rations through the rain and over the hills of the Southern Downs.”

“How far along are they?” 

“I’m not sure. I don’t know the Southern Downs very well. They were on a high hill, and below them was a forest and a river. There was a little church. I think they planned to spend the night there.” Merlin clutched his cup and took a long drink. “They’ve been slowed by rain, but that will clear away. The sun will come out and the roads will dry.”

“Venta Belgarum is only a few days’ ride from here,” Arthur said. He pushed back at the growing sense of triumph. “If we leave in the morning, we can meet him there and take the heart out of his rebellion before it has a chance to begin.”

“Only if we get there before him,” Merlin cautioned. “If he and his men arrive first, he could spread his rumors among the city’s leaders. Maybe hold the town against you. The army of Camelot would be victorious in the long run, but at what cost? If you call for the city to be burned to the ground you will defeat Pynell, but the people will hate you for it. If you ask me to break down the city gates so you may enter, then you’ll have proved Pynell’s story true in the people’s. They’ll believe that I’m controlling you for my own purposes.” 

“Merlin--”

The sorcerer held up a hand, and Arthur fell silent. “Please listen to me, Arthur. I am your servant. That is what I meant to be, and I’m happy for it and for all you’ve done for me and my kind. I will do whatever you ask of me. All I ask in return is that you consider the consequences of what you ask. If you don’t, the day may come where you refuse to listen to your advisors or the knights. You’ll turn to me before all others, and while it may seem reasonable to ask me to use magic to make your problems disappear, all you will do is make Pynell’s lies come true. And on that day, the council, the knights-- and even the people-- will have no other story to fall back on except the lie you made into a truth.”

Arthur bit back an angry retort. Hard truths were hard to hear, but they were the ones you needed to listen to the most. He hoped he hadn’t been relying on Merlin unless magic was the only or best answer, and yet he knew it could easily get out of hand. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”

“Thank you,” Merlin said softly. His fingers twitched on his cup. An awkward silence fell. “You know I’d follow you off a cliff.”

Arthur snorted. “If I ever jumped off a cliff, there would be a damned good reason for it. But I appreciate the thought. And at the very least, we’d find out if you really could fly.”

Merlin’s answering smile warmed his heart. He rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Thank you. I should go see about running my kingdom now. You stay here and get some rest.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

Merlin looked up from his book to find Niniane watching him from the doorway. She wore a pale gown, and her hair was braided into a crown. She bore a white cup in her hands. The light from the other room wreathed her in a warm glow, making her look like a springtime spirit sent before her time to bear the promise of new life. He stared at her, unable to form words. 

She smiled and handed him the cup. “Am I so hideous that I’ve rendered you speechless?”

“Quite the opposite.” He laughed and drew his knees to his chest to make room for her on his narrow bed. “The way your hair is. You’re beautiful.”

“This?” Niniane patted her hair and rolled her eyes. “Linnet spent all afternoon deciding how she wants her hair braided for the wedding. My great duty for the day was to sit there and let Elayne fuss with my hair.”

“That sounds like a difficult duty indeed.” Merlin chuckled. 

“It wasn’t a hardship, but I’d rather have spent the day working with Gaius or Blaise. I feel as though I’m wasting my gifts, sitting around being pretty and listening to gossip.” Niniane looked down at her hands. Her forefinger traced a circular pattern on the blankets. “I’m trained as a healer, just as you are.”

“And as a midwife, which I am not,” Merlin said. “And I know you do more than be pretty and listen to gossip. Gwen has a castle filled with servants and guards and knights and courtiers and all sorts of hangers-on to manage. That’s a task beyond any one person’s abilities. She wouldn’t be able to do it without you and Linnet and Elayne to help her.” 

Ninane shrugged. “But I’m not healing anyone.”

“You’ve helped me to heal.”

She smiled again, but it was short-lived and faded as quickly as a falling star. “One person. However important you are, you are but one man. I could be helping many others.” Her hands stilled and her gaze turned toward the window and the darkness beyond. Night had long since fallen, and clouds covered the moon. 

Merlin watched her for a while, then closed the book and set it aside. “You miss your people, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said faintly. “I didn’t think it would be so hard. I have friends here, after all. And you. But it’s not the same as being with your own kind. If I use a bit of magic to light a candle here, people look at me like I’ve done something awful, or they make signs against evil. When I’m with the Druids, I can use magic to keep people from dying, and no one thinks it’s strange.”

“All these stone walls don’t help, either,” Merlin said, his thoughts wandering out of the castle and into the forests where the Druids lived. What would it be like to live among people who were like him-- gifted with magic and able to hear the earth singing in the rain and wind? It wasn't the first time he wondered it, but he never could picture it.

“No, they don’t. I’m sure spring will make me feel better, with the longer days and green things growing. All this old stone reminds me of a cage. I don’t know how people can stand to spend their whole lives cooped up in a castle when there are forests and hills on their doorstep.”

“Ah, but the woods and hills are full of wolves and bandits,” Merlin said wryly. “And if the harvest fails out in the hills, an entire village can starve. In the city, at least you can count on the market to have bread and old apples.”

“But no freedom to go where you will,” Niniane countered.

“People will give up a lot of things-- including freedom-- to make sure their children can eat,” Merlin said. He couldn’t count how many times his mother had gone without to ensure Merlin had a few bites to fill his empty, aching belly. How might their lives have been different if they had lived in a city? Would he have come to Camelot at all? Would she have been murdered in a fire?

“You’re right,” Niniane said, sighing. “It all depends on what you are used to, and I am used to spending winter in the heart of a forest that never sees snow.”

“This winter was not ordinary. Camelot doesn’t usually get so much snow.” 

“And yet you traipsed out into it, and though you haven’t even been back for two days, you plan to go back out into the rain and wind tomorrow. And after Gaius wouldn’t let me see you this morning because he said you were unwell.” She gave him a pointed look.

He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not responsible for what Gaius says. I wasn’t feeling my best last night, but a good night’s sleep was all I needed. I even feel better now than I did this afternoon.”

She gave him a level look. He did his best to appear innocent and healthy. He must have succeeded, for her mien softened. “I suppose you look as well as you did before you left. How was your journey? Did you see anything interesting, or was it all mud and lonely roads?”

“Mostly mud and lonely roads. There was a comfortable inn where we spent a couple of nights,” Merlin said. He trailed off, thinking back to Anwen’s haunted eyes and the circle of stone where he had encountered the Goddess. He licked his lips and glanced toward the window. “Have you-- How do you view the Goddess? What is She to you?”

Ninane straightened, but the look she gave him was not fearful. “The Goddess, as in the Morrigan? The triple Goddess?” Merlin nodded. “I certainly fear Her, as I fear all the gods. But I respect Her, too. As I respect all the gods. Whether Lugh or Epona, Arawn or the Morrigan. I honor them all in their turn. They have their places in all our lives. Why do you ask?”

He gazed out the window into the darkness and thought back to all his encounters with the Goddess and Her priestesses. Nimueh and Morgause and Morgana, and all the times they had tried to kill him or Arthur. “Nearly every encounter I’ve had with a priestess of the Goddess has been violent. The Goddess herself would have killed me if other forces hadn’t interceded. More than once. How am I to honor Her after all that?”

“The priestesses are not the Goddess, no matter how much they wish it. The Goddess may act through them as it suits Her needs, but they are not Her,” Niniane said gently, taking his hand in hers. “And the gods cannot help but be what they are. The Cailleach rises at Samhain and guards the veil between the worlds because that is what she was made for, not because she wants to. The Morrigan rules over war and fear because she must. She does the terrible things she does because that is her nature. Birds fly, wolves hunt, and the Goddess rules over the dark parts of our natures. That is her role in the world. Why do you ask?”

Merlin sighed and sank against his pillows. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His head was beginning to ache. “The more I learn, the more I learn that I know next to nothing.”

“You know far more than that.” She touched his cheek, her fingers hot against his skin. “You look up at the stars and hear the music of the gods. Even our greatest bards cannot say the same. If I ask, you will tell me stories of cities that have lain in ruins for a thousand years, or of kings and queens lost to time. There is no one else who can do that.”

He folded his fingers around hers. “And in spite of all that, I couldn’t see that Lord Pynell planned to commit treason. Not while he wintered at Tintagel. Why is that? It was once Morgana’s stronghold. Does the Goddess still hold sway there?” 

“I don’t know. I’m not there. And even if I were, who’s to say if I could figure it out, one way or the other?” She paused and tilted her head, giving him a thoughtful look. “Or perhaps you are the flaw in your own logic.”

“How so?”

Niniane pulled her hand away and folded them in her lap. “You’ve spent so much time in Camelot among the faithful of the new religion. They see the world as a series of dualities. Night and day. Black and white. Good and evil. If you’d grown up among the Druids, you would see things differently. Few things are either one or the other. The gods are not only good or only evil. The Goddess has her place in our lives, even if She is frightening.”

Merlin stared down at the steam rising from the cup of tea in his hands, as though he could find the answers in the pale wisps. “Given what I’ve been through at Her hands before, I’m afraid to think of what might be in store for me.” He sipped the tea and grimaced. “It’s bitter.”

“Willow. To ease your aches.” She smiled. “And because it’s the tree of sorcerers.”

“As bitter as the magic we bear.” 

“It is like that sometimes,” Niniane said. “But it means the good times are all the sweeter for the bad we’ve endured.”

“You’re right.” Merlin took a long drink of the tea, ignoring the bitter flavor. “When did you get so wise?”

“I didn’t have a choice. I grew up among the Druids.” 

He laughed, and she smiled in return. “Will you watch out for Gaius while I’m gone? He’s not as well as he says he is.”

“I know. I’ll keep an eye on him for you. Again.” She glanced toward his closed door as though she had already begun her task. “When do you think you’ll return?”

“I don’t know. If Pynell makes it to Venta Belgarum before Arthur does, he could hold the city against us. If Arthur arrives first, he can wait for Pynell to fall into a trap. And before you ask,” he held up a hand to forestall the question she was drawing breath to ask, “I don’t know which of those futures lies before us. No matter what rumors call me ‘King’s Prophet’, these things don’t come to me when I call. I’m only a tool for the gods to use when they see fit.”

“You are more than a mere tool, Merlin Emrys.” Niniane leaned forward and kissed him. “Right now, you are a man who is leaving on yet another dangerous errand. And I am the foolish woman keeping you from your rest. I will say good-bye in the morning. For now, I will bid you good-night.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


They rode out at mid-morning, a force of twenty-five knights with Arthur at the head of the column, and Merlin trailing behind like their shadow. Arthur had wanted him by his side, but the sorcerer demurred. Venta Belgarum was a stronghold of the new religion, he’d said. There was no sense in giving its people cause to give Pynell the benefit of the doubt when he was spreading rumors about Arthur being under some compulsion to Merlin, magical or otherwise. 

Arthur begrudgingly agreed, and so Leon rode beside him and for the first day, they spoke of tactics and what they would do if they arrived to find the city’s gates shut. Venta Belgarum, after all, was more than a stronghold of faith. It was a well-defended city with stout walls and trained fighters who were not knights bound to Arthur by oaths. And while a larger body of soldiers would follow behind in a few days, laying siege to any city this early in the year could be a disaster. The ground was sodden by months of snow and rain and neither plants nor trees had begun to bud. In the cold and damp, his men would quickly go hungry and sicken. 

Inside, the people of Venta Belgarum would still have their winter stores and their warm beds, and Pynell would be secure in the knowledge that Arthur would not order the city to be burned to the ground for the sake of one man. 

They had to reach Venta Belgarum before Pynell. There was no other choice. 

And so Arthur pushed the men and horses to their limit on the first two days, and while old Bert would have given him a thrashing for driving the horses so far through the mud, they had covered enough ground to reach their destination by noon on the third day if the weather and roads were clear. 

They constructed a small camp in a meadow near the road, and when Arthur did his part to pitch the tents and build fires, no one looked askance at him. He waited until the rest of the men had a chance to eat a hot meal before he took his portion. Once he had eaten, he went in search of Merlin. 

The sorcerer had, according to Leon, settled in a tent with Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival. It was the closest to the edge of the forest, which surprised Arthur, not at all. It was also the tent with the loudest laughter. As he approached the ring of firelight, though, he saw that Merlin sat at the edge of the light, his eyes on the forest, expression distracted. 

“....you going to eat anything, Merlin?” Gwaine’s voice was the first Arthur heard. His playful tone did not completely hide an edge of concern. “You’ve barely eaten anything today. I think mice eat more than you do.”

“Do I need to make a royal decree to get you to eat, Merlin?” Arthur grinned as he stepped into the light. 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Everyone is obsessed with what I eat.”

“If you’d eat more than a mouse would, we wouldn’t have to be so concerned,” Lancelot chimed in. He moved to the end of the log he and Merlin were sitting on to make room for Arthur. 

“They’re not wrong,” Arthur said as he sat down and tugged his cloak tighter around himself. “If you get any thinner, you’ll blow away in a gust of wind.”

Merlin’s response was to take a bite of the soup they’d boiled over the fire and chew slowly, as though the single spoonful would be enough to allay their concerns. 

“Is something wrong?”

Merlin gave him a sidelong look. “What could possibly be wrong?” he asked dryly. “We’re only riding to capture one of Camelot’s highest-ranking nobles because he’s intent on raising a rebellion against you, and Saxon longships have been seen as far east as our borders. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Arthur chuckled. “When you put it like that… But I know you, Merlin. Something’s troubling you.”

The sorcerer idly stirred his soup and stared out at the trees, as though there was anything to see in the gathering dark. “Aside from everything else? It feels like someone’s out there watching us. I’ve felt it since we arrived.”

Arthur followed his gaze but saw nothing more than the shadows of trees and the darkening sky. “A woodcutter, perhaps, or a farmer. We’re close enough to Venta Belgarum that we’ll see its farms in the morning. Pynell might have sent scouts ahead.” He kept his voice light, projecting an air of confidence he did not feel. The mysterious presence could be a curious peasant, but if was malevolent enough to unnerve Merlin, chances were higher that it was someone or something that meant them harm.

Then again, Merlin’s health had not been the best of late. Over the winter it seemed that everyone had had their turn at being ill. Arthur himself had suffered a fever that left him bedridden and nonsensical for a week. It had not escaped his notice that Merlin was thinner these days, and paler. He had chalked it up to the endless snows and long nights taking their toll on a man who flourished under the boughs of leaf-laden trees. ‘Wait ‘til spring comes. He’ll be better then,’ was his constant refrain, and spring had not arrived yet. Had all this travel through snow, rain, and mud pushed Merlin’s health too far?

Perhaps, but Merlin had volunteered for the first journey, and would not have been denied this second one. 

Arthur stood and rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Finish your food, and then we should all get some sleep. We need to make an early start tomorrow. Gwaine and Lancelot, you’ll stand the first watch with Bedivere.”

“Why do I always get the first watch?” Gwaine protested.

“Because if you’re yawning the rest of the way to Venta Belgarum, I won’t have to listen to you talking,” Arthur said flatly, prompting a chuckle from the rest of the men, including Merlin. He grinned, gently squeezed the sorcerer’s shoulder, and bid them good-night before returning to his tent.

Leon and Bedivere were waiting when he arrived.

“Did your prophet have anything to say?” Bedivere asked. His tone held only a little humor. 

“He’s not a prophet,” Arthur said. Merlin told him that often enough. “But no, all he said was that he felt like someone was watching us. It could be a simple woodcutter as easily as anything else.” 

“Or it could be a Saxon scout. Or one of Pynell’s men,” Bedivere said. In the firelight, his mismatched eyes made him look like a madman. 

“It could be,” Arthur acknowledged. “That’s why I want you on the first watch along with Gwaine and Lancelot.”

“That’ll be a long few hours,” Bedivere grumbled. Leon laughed.

“He might be a loudmouth and a braggart, but he’s as loyal as they come,” Arthur said. “But don’t tell him I said that, or he’ll never let me forget it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if there’s ever a time that I’m annoyed with you. Sire.” Leon could not quite hold back his grin. “I’ll take the last watch so I can wake you before sunrise. I assume you want to get an early start in the morning?” 

“I do, yes,” Arthur said dryly, mildly annoyed that Leon had changed the subject to something so practical. “With luck, we’ll reach Venta Belgarum by midday. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll arrive.”

“That will strain the horses,” Bedivere warned.

“I know. But if we get there before Pynell we will arrest him and have a slow walk home. If Pynell gets there first, we’ll have a few days to rest them before the army arrives. The horses will have time to rest either way.”

“And what about us? I have yet to hear of a siege that was restful for the besiegers,” Bedivere said. “Especially when there are only twenty-five of them. Unless Merlin is willing to do something about it.”

“No,” Arthur said firmly. “He has his reason for not wanting to intervene in this business with Pynell, with magic or otherwise. It would be easier for us if he were willing to do so, but I understand why he won’t and I won’t push him to act against his will. And I’ve often heard that the easiest road is not always the best. If I have to climb the walls of Venta Belgarum to arrest Pynell myself, then so be it. But either way, we’ll make an end of this.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


If the gods were smiling on the beginning of the final leg of their journey, Merlin decided they were laughing by the end of it. The day dawned bright and clear, and there was a hint of springtime warmth in the air as they broke camp and rode eastward. But by the time the belltower of Venta Belgarum’s church came into view on the horizon, leaden clouds darkened the sky, promising rain by sundown. 

The countryside was eerily quiet as they rode through. No children dashed out of the handful of thatched farmhouses to watch the procession of red-cloaked knights, no farmers were out in the fields or minding their herds, no women paused their work to smile at the young knights in their bright armor. 

Merlin wrapped Altair’s reins loosely around his hand, closed his eyes, and let his awareness stretch out across the countryside. He was not scrying; that involved searching for an individual and watching their movements. What he was doing was akin to smelling the breeze to catch the scent of baking bread in the air. Or the scent of rotting things. Or smoke. He shuddered and pulled his senses back into himself, swallowing hard against the lingering tang of fear in the air and, below that, a mote of dark purpose and a black wrongness he could not place.

“Where is everyone? I know it’s late in the winter, but someone should be out here minding the farms and livestock. How many people live out here?” Arthur’s voice sounded far away, but when Merlin finally opened his eyes he was within arm’s reach of the king. Altair, having been left to his own devices, had sidled up next to Arthur’s horse, Canrith. 

“In the half-dozen farms we’ve seen along the road?” Merlin shrugged. “Perhaps fifty? They’re all hiding behind the walls of Venta Belgarum,” Merlin said. His voice sounded distant, even to his own ears.

“Why? Are there bandits? Or Saxons?” Arthur asked sharply, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. 

“If there were Saxons, we’d smell the smoke. They burn everything they can’t take with them,” Bedivere said darkly. 

“No. No Saxons. No bandits, either.” Merlin cleared his throat. “The peasants fled ahead of us. I think Pynell beat us to Venta Belgarum, and if I had to make a guess, I’d say he’s spreading rumors that Arthur will rain vengeance down upon them.”

“I’d like to cut his lying tongue out,” Gwaine muttered.

Merlin gave him a level glance. “I’m only guessing. I don’t know anything for certain yet.”

“Your guesses are often better than other men’s certainty,” Arthur said absently, then nudged Canrith into a canter. 

The knights followed Arthur. Merlin let them ride past him before he urged Altair on. 

Lancelot slowed his horse to keep pace with Merlin. “What’s on your mind?” 

“Nothing. It’s unsettling seeing the farms empty. If the people were told that Arthur would punish them for some reason, it’s disturbing to think they’d believe it.”

“Arthur hasn’t been king for long. They remember what Uther was like. He would have punished them.”

“And they remember what he said about sorcerers.” Merlin shook his head. His shoulders sagged. “You can change all the laws you want, but you can’t change people.”

“No, I suppose you can’t.”

Merlin tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace. “I’m going to stay back for a while. There’s nothing I can do that won’t make the situation worse. If Pynell’s told the people I have Arthur under some sort of spell, it won’t do him any good if I’m by his side when he reaches the gates.”

“Merlin-”

“He doesn’t need me for everything. He has a good heart to guide him and a flock of knights to back him up. I won’t be far away.”

Lancelot gave him a searching look, as though he could discover what was troubling Merlin before even the sorcerer could do so. “All right. But if you run into trouble--”

“I’ll find a way to tell you,” Merlin interrupted. “I’ll be fine. I grew up in a place like this, with farms and a forest nearby. And I spent a few months living alone in Broceliande Forest, remember? There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Didn’t you say that before Blackheath?”

A flash of anger burned hot in Merlin’s gut. Would everyone feel the need to remind him of that place until the day he died? But there was only concern in Lancelot’s dark eyes. The anger died as swiftly as it had flared to life. “This isn’t Blackheath, and not every week can be the worst of my life. You go on. Catch up with Arthur. You’ve sworn an oath to follow him, not me. I can take care of myself.”

Lancelot glanced over his shoulder to where the last of the red-cloaked knights were disappearing around a bend in the road. “All right. But promise me you’ll send word if something happens.”

Merlin sighed. “I will send word if something happens.”

The knight nodded, apparently not noticing Merlin’s distinct lack of a promise. “If you haven’t come back in a week, or when we’re preparing to return to Camelot, I will come looking for you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Now go.”

With a sigh, Lancelot turned his horse and urged it to a fast canter to catch up with the others. Merlin watched until he, too, disappeared around the bend, then nudged Altair into a slow walk. 

He had not been lying when he told Lancelot he was familiar with places like this. Though Ealdor lay far from a city or town like Venta Belgarum, it, too, was surrounded by small farms and shepherds’ huts. The latter would be empty this time of year, as the sheep would not go out to pasture in the hills until spring had firmly settled upon the land. If the farms were truly empty, he and Altair could take shelter in a barn. If not, a shepherd’s hut would do. A roof over his head at night was all he asked, so long as it provided him space and time to think his own thoughts for a while.

Castle life had its comforts. He could not deny that. But the disadvantages had begun to weigh on him more and more as the winter progressed. The royals, nobles, knights, guards, and servants who filled the halls and chambers were presences he sensed so often he felt as though he were never truly alone. Their thoughts and emotions were as persistent to him as the buzzing of bees around a blossom-laden rosebush. He had never noticed it before. Perhaps the long weeks of enforced closeness were slowly driving him mad. Whatever it was, living in the castle had grown so stifling, the people pushed so close together, that he often felt ill. Whenever he went outside, into the clear cold air, he felt better. 

And, if he dared to admit it to himself, he held a strange wish to speak with the Goddess again. 

He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. 

If he was hoping to see the Goddess in all Her vengeful glory, he really was going mad. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“He did what?” Arthur stared at Lancelot like he had said pigs were flying around the walls of Venta Belgarum.

“He thought his presence here, by your side, would only make the situation worse given what Pynell’s been saying about him all this time.” Lancelot shifted nervously in the saddle, causing his horse to shy away from Canrith. The knight tugged at the reins and brought the courser back under control.

Arthur clenched his jaw to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind: ‘But what if I need him for some spell here?’. It was unkind and showed no respect for what Merlin needed or wanted. And with an extra moment of thought, he realized it showed no respect to his knights to constantly look to Merlin for answers instead of the men sworn to his service, as though there was truth in Pynell’s rumors. Merlin had been right about that. “He’s a free man. He can come and go as he will. Did he say where he’d go?”

“No. Only that he wouldn’t be far away, and that he would send for us if anything happened. With one of his birds, perhaps.” The tight set of Lancelot’s shoulders eased. 

“Perhaps,” Arthur said. Who knew what sort of messenger the sorcerer would draft into his service? For a while it had been an actual merlin, a sleek little falcon that would fly in through his window. Sometimes it was a frazzled-looking owl that enjoyed perching on Merlin’s shoulder. Other birds-- falcons, hawks, or owls-- showed up with messages now and then, but never for long. Merlin said he didn’t wish to break their spirits by turning them into king’s servants, that creatures born wild should remain wild.

The same, Arthur knew, held true for people. As devoted a servant as Merlin had always been, Arthur had no desire to break his spirit by chaining the man to his side and endlessly asking him to perform magic tricks, no matter how useful they might be. “We’ll have to hope that he doesn’t get himself into trouble. I’d hate to have to fetch him out of a tree like a lost kitten.”

Lancelot snorted, while Bedivere didn’t bother holding back his laughter. “I’d pay to see that.”

“I’m sure you would,” Arthur said dryly. “But first let’s figure out what to do about Venta Belgarum.”

“Assuming the gates are closed?” Bedivere asked.

“Assuming the gates are closed,” Arthur said. “Given the state of the countryside, it’s a good bet that Pynell beat us here, frightened the townspeople with his tales, and is now holding the town against us.”

“Your father would have burned it to the ground for harboring a traitor.”

Arthur gave Bedivere a sidelong glance. “It’s been noted before that I’m not my father. I will not punish the townspeople because one man told a story I didn’t like.”

Bedivere’s smile was short-lived. “The obvious answer is to break down the gates once the army arrives. There will be enough of us to shield the men from attack while they either break the gates or undermine the walls.”

“That takes time. Supply lines or not, the land won’t support an army this time of year. We can’t afford a siege. Not at the end of winter when nothing is growing, or later in spring when Urien might take advantage of Camelot’s infighting to attack while we’re engaged here. We must defeat Pynell here and now.” Arthur raised his voice at the end to address the men further back in the line of riders, his tone laden with every ounce of confidence he could dredge up, though he thought it must have rung hollow. If Pynell had closed the gates of Venta Belgarum against them, he had no more idea of how to open them again than he did of how to fly to the moon.

If the men heard his lack of confidence they did not show it for they let out a cheer, though it was muted by the thick stand of trees forming an archway over the last bend of the road before the city came into view. Arthur held his breath through the last stretch, resolving to keep his head up and his back straight, no matter what sight greeted him around the bend. 

It was as he feared. At the end of the long road from Camelot, there was no welcome for the young king. The gates of Venta Belgarum were closed.


	3. Chapter 3

Guinevere let out a long, shaking breath as she smoothed yet another imaginary wrinkle from the bodice of her gown. Before her lay a map of the Five Kingdoms that was nearly as wide as she was tall. It was a work of art in its own right, with landforms, borders, and coastlines drawn in great detail and each of the kingdoms delineated in a fine hand with cities and the larger towns clearly denoted. 

There was the kingdom of Camelot, marked by its dragon banner, then Amata to the northwest, Deorham in the north, Rheged to the east, and Nemeth to the southwest. Above that, far in the north and less detailed were the wildlands of Alt Clut, Dal Riada, and the Pictlands. Far to the west, across the sea, were the unnumbered kingdoms of Eire, and to the south beyond the Narrow Sea lay Brittany, where Lancelot had come from. 

The names of the Five Kingdom’s rulers were written on wooden markers and placed upon their capitals. Guinevere had asked Geoffrey why those names weren’t written on the map itself, but the old scholar had pointed out that kings usually changed more often than the kingdoms did, noting that in the past two years, the Sarrum of Amata had been killed and replaced by Hywel, while Deorham’s King Alined had died in what was called a hunting accident and replaced by his brother, King Ban. And word had only recently come from Nemeth that their beloved King Rodor had died of a fever, leaving that kingdom to his daughter, now Queen Mithian. There had been sighs at that news, with some quietly wishing that Arthur had wed then-Princess Mithian the previous year.

Guinevere shook her head and banished the thought. Arthur had made his decision and no one could undo it now. She was queen now. But it didn’t stop her from being nervous at the thought of speaking with a lord of the realm about the possibility of a Saxon invasion while Arthur was away dealing with another threat. 

“You’ll do fine,” Elyan said from behind her, his voice low and warm. He had chosen to stay behind while the others headed to Venta Belgarum, and she was glad for it. If she couldn’t have Arthur by her side, her brother would serve as a fine substitute. He knew more about the politics of Pynell’s camp, anyway, having wintered in the same castle as the man. 

“And you’re hardly alone, my dear,” Drusilla said. “He can snarl, but he cannot bite. And while he might growl like an old wolf, just remember to be firm with him like you would be with an unruly pup, and you’ll bring him to heel.”

Guinevere laughed. “Should I toss him a treat if he behaves?”

“You might,” Drusilla said. A smile played about her lips, but she managed to suppress it. Mostly. “He likes apple pastries if I remember right. Though I would only send for Mistress Agnes’s offerings if he’s been very good. Otherwise, the castle’s pastries will do.” She reached out and patted Guinevere’s hand before settling back in her chair with a serene expression on her face. 

Elyan’s laugh was a low rumble at her side, while across the table, Geoffrey of Monmouth looked scandalized at the thought of a lord of Camelot being alternately scolded or rewarded like an errant puppy. Guinevere looked down at the map and tried to hide her smile. Though it might perturb an aging man, a bit of harmless imagining often brought the highborn down to a more reasonable stature and thereby reduced her nerves. 

“Lord Caradoc has nothing to gain by withholding what he knows about the Saxons’ movements,” Geoffrey said, his tone edging toward scolding. “He may have been on Pynell’s man for a time, but he has shown himself to be loyal to Camelot.”

“I know, Geoffrey,” Guinevere said gently. “And I am thankful for his honorable actions and your reminder of it. You must forgive me for my nerves. I am still learning what it is to be a queen. Your instruction has been so helpful, and I’m grateful to you for it.” 

Geoffrey settled back in his chair, mollified by her praise. It was all true. He had spent the winter teaching Guinevere the finer points of statecraft, and not once had he made her feel foolish for not knowing some detail that Arthur would have known since childhood. He might be a bit stodgy, especially when compared to Drusilla, but there was no mistaking his loyalty to the crown. 

There was a knocking at the door, and a young knight entered and bowed. “Your Majesty. Lord Caradoc to see you.”

Guinevere squared her shoulders. “Bring him in.”

Lord Caradoc had changed since she had last seen him in the throne room days earlier. Arthur had had him and his son confined to chambers within the castle, but ensured that the two would be comfortable. With a few hot meals behind him, the application of hot water and soap, and a seamstress’s quick work, he looked less like a hungry wolf and more like the kind of man a person might want by their side. 

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing low enough that his words were nearly lost to the floor. 

“Lord Caradoc. Have a seat,” she gestured to the chair next to Drusilla. He sat down stiffly, his eyes flicking across the map spread across the table. “It was brought to our attention that you had received reports of Saxon longships near your lands. Was this true?”

He glanced up at her, his eyebrows rising. “Yes, Majesty.” He drew in a breath, then noticed Elyan standing at her side. Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he paused and looked back down at the map. “My steward sent word that two longships were moored on the far side of the border between Camelot and Rheged. There is a distinctive rock formation that marks the border. Even the Saxons couldn’t miss it. May I?” he gestured at the tiny, hastily carved collection of boats next to the map. 

Guinevere nodded her assent, and Caradoc grabbed two, placing them on the river’s edge, to the right of the thick line that marked the border. Then he traced the blue line of the same river upstream. “There is a stone bridge here that will stop the longships and force the Saxons onto the land. It would reduce their speed and their ability to escape, but that bridge was built by the Romans. It’s old and falling into disrepair.”

“Why has it not been maintained?” Guinevere asked. 

Caradoc shrugged. “It’s too narrow for trade. Carts can’t cross it, and stones near the middle are starting to fall out. It’s only used by shepherds these days.” 

“That will have to change. If that bridge helps keep the Saxons from coming into Camelot, we need to make it a priority. No more leaving it to the shepherds and waiting for time and our enemies to destroy it. Do you have men you could send to guard and fortify it?”

“I--” he stopped and frowned, his gaze going distant as he thought it over. “I have stonemasons who’ve been conducting repairs on my gatehouse’s walls. I’m sure a few of them could be sent there after the thaw. And my household guard could use some exercise after this winter. I’ll see to it that the bridge is mended and guarded as soon as I can send word there. That could take time, though.”

“I’m sure we can find a way to speed a message along,” Guinevere said, for a moment wishing Merlin had not gone with Arthur. His birds were quick messengers and could deliver a bit of paper faster than someone on horseback. Perhaps Niniane could charm a bird. She’d never asked the Druid what all she was capable of. “And if there is anything the Crown can do to aid in your efforts to repair the bridge, all you need to do is ask. We will see to it.” 

“Thank you, Majesty.” Caradoc nodded his head in the semblance of a bow. Geoffrey made a disgruntled noise. Guinivere ignored him. If a simple bridge could hold back the Saxon ships, she was sure Arthur would agree that repairing it was a sound investment, even if it put a small dent in the royal treasury.

“You are welcome, My Lord. Given that your lands are on the border, we must protect them. If we don’t, we’ll find ourselves overrun before we realize it.” She paused to consider something. “You have more children than just Gaheris, don’t you?”

“Yes, Majesty. Gaheris, four daughters, and another son. My eldest, Blanche, is betrothed. She’s to be married this summer.” A small, disbelieving smile spread across his face. It softened his stern mien, making him look less like a high lord of Camelot and more like a doting father. Years seemed to fall away from his face. “I can hardly believe it.” 

Guinevere gave him a wistful smile. Maybe one day, she would be able to say the same thing about her own daughter. “If there’s a time when you feel your family is in danger, you may send them here to Camelot. We would provide for them until they could return home.”

“I-- Thank you, Your Majesty. I don’t think that will be necessary. For now. But I will keep it in mind for the future.”

“I hope you will,” Guinevere said. She took a deep breath and glanced toward Drusilla, who inclined her head as though egging her on. “My Lord, you’ve been lord of Celliwig for a long time. Few in Camelot know more about the movements of Rheged’s army or that of the Saxons. This is vital information. Rumor has reached us that King Urien of Rheged might be in league with the Saxons, and if that’s true we could be facing an invasion from across the border as well as from the sea. I know you haven’t been home in several months, but I’m hoping that you had some means of communicating with your wife or your steward while you were at Tintagel.”

Caradoc looked up from the map, blinking at her as though he had not understood what she’d said. “But the king is not here, Majesty. Surely it would be better if I discussed these matters with him?”

Guinevere folded her hands to stop herself from throwing something at him. She kept her voice low and even. “My Lord, I may be a woman but I assure you that I am fully capable of understanding everything you have to say, even when it comes to strategy and the movements of soldiers. We are facing dire consequences if we don’t prepare for the Saxon threat, and the sooner we prepare for it, the better we can defend ourselves. We don’t know when Arthur will return, and when he comes home, I would prefer it if there were already some strategy at play, instead of having to build one after the Saxons have begun raiding our lands. I would hate to explain to Arthur how we lost land or had to bury citizens of Camelot because one man thought his queen wasn’t clever enough to understand the information he had.”

Caradoc shrank back into his seat, and from the corner of her eye, she noticed that Geoffrey had done the same. She thought she heard Elyan’s low chuckle behind her. 

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Caradoc straightened, though he did not raise his eyes to meet hers. “You are right. This is no time to quibble about the duties of kings and queens. Although my information is old by now. I haven’t had a letter from Celliwig for weeks. The last thing we knew for certain was that King Urien was meeting with a Saxon envoy at midwinter. The messenger didn’t say why or who was coming, and after that we heard nothing else.”

“I would suspect your man was discovered and killed,” Drusilla said flatly.

“I assume the same. Since then, the only thing I’ve heard is the sorts of rumors that merchants pass along. Some outlandish stories about wyverns and flying boats.” Caradoc shook his head. “I might believe the story about the wyverns, but the flying boats? I think not. Why would they keep to the rivers?”

“Why indeed,” Guinevere said. She would have to ask Merlin about those things when he returned. If the Saxons had sorcerers, Camelot would be at a disadvantage. Especially if Morgana was allied with them. “Have you heard anything about Morgana? Last we knew, she was working with Urien.”

“All I’ve heard is that she was seen in Rheged, alongside the king’s son Accolon. That is old news now,” Caradoc’s shoulders sagged. “I’m afraid that’s all I know, My Lady. It was nearly impossible to get messengers in and out of Tintagel all winter, what with the storms that seemed to hit us every other day. It was like the old gods were trying to fling us into the sea to get rid of us.” He made a warding gesture against evil.

“It’s more than we’ve had,” Guinevere said. Arthur’s spies had sent their final reports before reaching Urien’s fortress-- one from a few leagues past the border, the other from Londinium. After that, there was nothing. Once winter set in, there was no chance to send anyone else. 

“But it’s not enough. If all we have to guide us are a few longship sightings and the stories merchants tell their children, then we’re as good as aiming blindly and praying we’ll hit the target,” Drusilla said. “I don’t like not knowing, and I like being taken by surprise even less.” Her face set and her jaw clenched. 

“It will have to do until we can get our spies into their camps. We also have our past experiences to rely on. There are only certain places Rheged can attack from thanks to the lay of the land.” Caradoc grabbed a handful of the polished gray marker stones and set them on the map with a series of soft clicks. “They can skirt the marshes there, in the narrow region between the water and hills. They can come at us below the Ridge of Chemry, or at Badon Hill, or along the river on my lands. They could go south of the river, but that’s a dangerous crossing until you reach Londinium further inland. The more direct routes are north of the river, or along the river itself.” 

“Which makes that bridge all the more important,” Guinevere said, glancing up at Geoffrey. “It seems to me that it would make sense to lay out plans to send the army to any one of these locations. That way, if the Saxons invade, we’ll be ready no matter where they go.”

“A wise decision, my lady,” Geoffrey said. 

Guinevere gave him a faint smile. “Well, then. Where should we start?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“That was clever to ask Caradoc about his family and offer them protection here before going on to ask him about Rheged and the Saxons.” 

Guinevere felt her cheeks warm at Elyan’s praise, and she couldn’t blame her blushes entirely on the effort it took to climb the stairs to Gaius’s chambers. “It wasn’t all my idea. Drusilla suggested it. She said it would help to remind him of the stakes if he remembered that his family could be in danger. I could make a list of all the towns and holdings in the borderlands, tell him how many people were at risk if the Saxons invade, but people don’t always think about the welfare of strangers. If you give them a face or remind them of the personal cost to them or their family, then it begins to mean something. Drusilla told me to make it personal.”

“She was right. I don’t care if his information was old. It was more than we had before, and I think Arthur will be grateful he doesn’t have to sit down with the old man after this whole business with Pynell is over.”

“You’re assuming this whole business with Pynell will end soon.” Guinevere paused on the stairs. “But it could go on for weeks. If the gates of Venta Belgarum are shut-”

“Then Arthur will find a way to deal with them,” Elyan assured her. “Merlin, Leon, and Bedivere are with him. If they can’t find a way to deal with the gates before the rest of the knights arrive, then the rest of the knights will help bring them down. Have faith.”

“I’m trying to. I can’t help but imagine everything that could go wrong.”

“Everything is going to be fine,” Elyan said confidently, though from the lines around his eyes she could tell he was worried, too, and pretending he wasn’t. 

Guinevere leaned against him, resting her head against his chest until he wrapped his arms around her. She felt his shoulders loosen, as though the act of giving comfort helped to ease his burdens. “When did our lives get so complicated?” he asked.

“I’d say it was the same day I entered the service of a spoiled princess,” Guinevere said.

“I wouldn’t have called Morgana a princess.”

“Close enough.” Guinevere pulled away from her brother and smiled. “She would have called herself as much if she could have gotten away with it. But enough of our maunderings. We have a visit to make.” 

Gaius’s chambers were as welcoming as ever, with the late morning light pouring in and a fire burning merrily in the hearth. Niniane was leaning over the table to grind herbs. The Druid bobbed a curtsey when she saw Guinevere, but did not pause in her work. 

As for Gaius, he sat in a chair near the fire, wrapped in blankets and nodding sleepily.

“Good morning!” Guinevere said cheerfully. “How is everyone doing this morning?”

“Just fine,” Niniane almost sang. “Gaius should be resting, but he finds it necessary to tell me things I already know about herbalism.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, my dear,” Gaius said. His voice was clear but soft. “I’m not accustomed to having such an attentive student. Merlin never seemed to pay attention to me.”

“I think you’ll have to forgive poor Merlin for being inattentive. He had a lot on his mind,” Guinevere said as she sat down on the bed next to Gaius’s chair. For once, it was empty and she felt an unexpected wash of relief. She had spent too many hours sitting in the chair next to that bed while waiting for one friend or another to recover. There had been times where she felt she would grow old and gray in that chair, or feared her face would crack with the effort to keep a smile on her face for the sake of the ailing. 

“And to his credit, he has mastered most of what you’ve had to teach him,” Niniane added as she handed Gaius a cup and kissed his forehead.

“That he has.” The old physician raised the cup to sniff the contents. He raised an eyebrow at Niniane. 

She gave him a level look. “Hawthorn, meadowsweet, and the tiniest bit of mistletoe for your aches and pains. And honey to make it extra sweet.”

Gaius lowered his eyebrow and raised the cup to his lips to sip it. “I suppose it will do.”

Niniane rolled her eyes and set about clearing the table. 

“I thought mistletoe was poisonous,” Elyan said.

“It is if you take too much of it. It’s like anything else. The dose makes the poison. A little bit can help. Too much can hurt you,” Niniane answered. “It takes time to learn which old wives’ tales are true, and which ones aren’t.”

“If the old wives’ tales are coming from Drusilla, they’re bound to be true,” Guinevere said. 

“Was she right about asking after Lord Caradoc’s family?” Gaius asked.

“She was,” Guinevere confirmed. She sat up straighter. “Once I told him he could bring his family to court for their safety, he melted like butter. His information was old, but it’s better than nothing, and he pointed out where the Saxons are most likely to attack. Now we’ll know where to send our forces when the time comes. I did commit the Crown to help Celliweg reconstruct a bridge, but I don’t think Arthur will mind.” She heard the uncertainty in her voice at the last point, but there was nothing to do about it now. Didn’t they say it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission?

“I’m sure Arthur will be glad to repair a bridge if it helps keep the Saxons out of Camelot,” Gaius said. He had the air of someone who knows. 

“Small things can make a big difference. Even if it only slows them down, it will help. The more time we can buy, the better off we’ll be,” Guinevere said. “But that’s enough of that. I’ve been talking about battle strategies and troop movements all morning. How are you? Are you feeling better?”

“I am, though someone keeps telling me to sit down and rest.” He raised an eyebrow towards Niniane, who gave him a level stare in return before smiling and going back to her work. “But I’ll admit it. The sunshine is good for me, and my feet aren’t complaining about me sitting here. I could almost get used to this.”

“Are you thinking of a quiet retirement, then?”

Gaius laughed. “And spend my days puttering about trying to do nothing? No. I think a few hours of sitting are all I could take. I’ve been too busy for too long to stop. I might slow down, but retiring? No. I still have plenty to do, and Merlin has more than enough on his plate. As soon as my physician allows it, you can be sure that I’ll be attending council meetings and making potions and be back to being a meddling old man. I hope that doesn’t upset you.”

“Not at all,” Guinevere said, smiling. “I’ll look forward to it. Geoffrey is a wise man, but he doesn’t speak up when Drusilla says something outlandish. I think he’s a little afraid of her. But you’re not, so I look forward to your return.” 

“I look forward to it, too. In the meantime, if you’re not too fed up with the council’s doings, would you be willing to tell me all the news?” Gaius gave her a plaintive look. “When you’re an old man and you get sick, everyone thinks you’re too fragile to hear about all the goings-on. I assure you I’m not that breakable. Even bad news won’t make me fall apart. I’m too stubborn for that.” 

Guinevere’s smile widened. “For you, anything. What would you like to hear about first?”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Merlin let out a long breath and let the tension of the past several weeks melt from his shoulders. It was quiet at last. No one else was around, no other presences brushing against his consciousness like moths against a windowpane. Even the music of the stars had quieted, leaving nothing but the lonely rush of the wind through the trees. He was finally alone.

Well, except for Altair. But the horse’s presence was hardly a burden, providing instead a welcome, if quiet, companion who reminded him to do simple things like eat and find shelter for the night. 

“What do you think, old friend? Will this barn do?” Altair made a snuffling sound that Merlin took for a noise of approval. 

Whoever lived on this little farm had left nothing living behind. No sheep, no cats, no dogs. Not even a chicken was there to peck at the scattered seeds spread out for them. They must have finished mucking the plow horse's stall, though, for the hay smelled sweet, if a little musty from having gone unused for a few days. Still, he had slept in worse places and if nothing more than a few mice troubled him in the night, he would count himself lucky. He’d have a roof over his head and food for Altair. He’d leave the farmer a handful of silver to pay for whatever supplies he used.

In the meantime, he would use the quiet to figure out what was bothering him. 

Something had changed that night in the stone circle when the Goddess had demanded he honor Her. Something was different inside his mind and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He would have called it an absence except he felt a definite presence, one that was unfamiliar to him, as though a familiar landscape had changed overnight, been emptied of its people and the birds and creatures in the woods, then replaced by strangers. 

He shivered and led Altair into the barn, silently giving thanks that the farmer kept the low building in good repair. No wind or rain would slip through the cracks. The floor was hard-packed dirt, not muddy or littered with manure. Merlin brushed the straw away from the corner farthest from the door and set down his saddle and packs. Silently, he groomed Altair and cleaned his hooves, drew water from the well in the yard to drink and wash, and spread out his bedroll. He spared barely a thought for the routine, doing each task by rote while examining his memories of that strange night in the stone circle. 

It already felt as though it had happened years ago, the memories fading around the edges like a dream. But the Goddess’s final words were clear as a bell. ‘ _Honor me, or let thought and memory drive you mad.’_

“Thought and memory,” he said aloud, the sound harsh against the silence.

Altair’s ears swiveled around to regard him, and he paused in his chewing. 

“Carry on,” Merlin said, waving a hand like he was telling one of the knights to ignore his maunderings. “I’m thinking out loud.” Altair snorted and resumed his chewing.

Thought and memory. Thought. Memory.

He had awful memories. Maddening ones, even. He could remember plague and famine; his own execution, failed though the attempt was. Arthur exiling him, and the flood of memories from lives he hadn’t lived flowing into his mind in the crystal cave. Six months of darkness and his mother’s cries as she burned to death in a fire. His father, giving his life for him after knowing him for a day. If memory had not driven him mad yet, it wasn’t going to. 

His thoughts, on the other hand… Those might drive him to distraction in the end with the way they circled in his head, endlessly chasing each other until he found some task to focus on or else spent half the night lying awake, listening to his heart racing. He had passed the winter nights staring wide-eyed into the darkness and made himself sick with the thinking. Being out here among the lonely trees and under the stars with only Altair for company was supposed to calm him. And yet he was still unsettled, like he was being watched from one side and ignored from the other.

Merlin rubbed his eyes, then rose and grabbed his cloak on the way out the door. He made sure the latch was secure before hurrying to the farm’s edge where the clearing looked out over the valley below Venta Belgarum. Across the way, the little city’s lights glittered brightly against the deepening forest. And there, in a cluster hugging the road, the campfires of Arthur’s company glowed like a beacon. 

Arthur was safe and well. It took a moment’s thought for Merlin to cast his awareness toward the camp and find the king, brooding but trying to make it look like he was unconcerned for the future. Typical.

Smiling, Merlin brought his awareness back to his own body. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and pulled the hood up. The first birds of spring might be singing in the trees by day, but Old Man Winter was unwilling to give up his icy grip on the night. High above, wisps of cloud gave way, unveiling the spray of stars. Merlin sighed and silenced his thoughts, waiting for the music of the heavens to fill his mind and soothe his fears. 

Except there was no music. 

He took a step back, shivered, willed himself to be calm, then took a deep breath and looked back up at the sky. And still, there was silence, as though his ears had been stopped up. Or as though the gods had vanished, leaving behind an empty world. 

Ever since he was a boy in Ealdor, Merlin had heard music in the stars. In childhood, it had been a quiet hum like a lullaby in the distance. When he had come into his full powers in Camelot, the music had grown and changed, become a chorus with individual voices and melodies that had become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat and he had known without being told that it was the music of the old gods. 

Now it was gone and no matter how far he stretched his awareness, no matter how attentively he listened, there was no hint of a song in the darkness. Only an eerie silence, a deafness within him, like waking after Blackheath to discover he was blind. He stood still, rooted in place and waiting for a song he knew he wouldn’t hear, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to leave him, waiting for some sign or sound to tell him his gods had not abandoned him. 

The sign never came. The night was silent save for the rush of wind through the treetops, echoing across the valley like mocking laughter. 

Merlin gasped and swiped at the wetness on his face. He staggered, falling, and wincing when the frozen ground dug into his knees. With an effort he lurched to his feet and stumbled forward, his uneven steps taking him back to the cold shelter of a stranger’s barn. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was long past midnight before Merlin could think sensibly again. He’d managed to close the barn door behind himself before collapsing in the corner, staring wide-eyed at the little ball of light he’d conjured in his palm to assure himself that his magic hadn’t left him along with the gods. 

He sniffed and wiped at his running nose, then tossed the ball of light into the air to let it float above him and light his way toward the bucket of water so he could wash his face and sluice the sour taste out of his mouth. The knot in his gut hadn’t loosened; it had wound itself tighter instead, and he felt like he might throw up what little he had eaten that day. 

He debated returning to his bedroll to bury himself in his cloak and blanket to wait out the darkness but found himself tottering to Altair’s side to lean against the horse’s shoulder. Altair stood still, snuffling at him curiously. His slow and steady breathing gave Merlin something to focus on to ground himself against the tide of uncertainty washing over him. 

More time passed. How long, Merlin couldn’t guess but Altair had dozed off and Merlin was close to falling asleep on his feet. His eyes were gritty, and he felt like he could sleep for a year. He sighed and stroked Altair’s neck for a while, then pushed away from the horse and stumbled back to his bedroll. He pulled his cloak and blanket up to his chin and banished the light, and though he feared his worries would keep him awake until dawn, sleep quickly claimed him, pulling him into a world of uneasy dreams.

* * *

  
  


Outside, in the darkness below the trees at the farmyard’s edge, a hooded figure watched the barn door and counseled himself to patience. He had already waited a long time, wondering how he might separate the sorcerer from the king and his knights, only to have the man appear almost in front of him, alone save for a horse, and staggering about like he was drunk. 

Had King Arthur finally banished his pet sorcerer from his sight? It seemed unlikely. Arthur was smitten, and the sorcerer was, too. There was too much history between the two of them for Arthur to cast the sorcerer away like a worn-out garment. More likely, he was alone to complete some sordid ritual or to commune with his pagan gods. Whatever had put the sorcerer out of sorts was no real concern of his, save that it would make his job simpler.

Killing a distracted man was easier than killing one who had his wits about him. 

Jehan waited until the moon was low in the sky, then turned and disappeared into the woods, not bothering to hide his footprints. Tonight was not the night to strike, he decided. The sorcerer was on edge and more likely to strike at shadows. Give him another night or two, and his troubles would wear him out. 

Jehan paused and rattled the box in his pack. The creature inside wriggled in answer, struggling against the box's chains to escape and seek out the magic it sensed. Jehan had heard that Arthur's pet sorcerer was powerful. Possibly the most powerful who had ever lived. But as strong as he was, even Merlin would be laid low by the Gean Canach. The ugly little creature would devour the sorcerer's magic, and then something as simple as a knife to the throat would put an end to him. 

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

  
  


Arthur poked at the makeshift model of Venta Belgarum and wished he could open the real city’s gate as easily as he could push aside the sticks that guarded the model’s entrance. “I’ve only been here once. I think I was thirteen or so. My father was here to grant Sir Lanval governance over Venta Belgarum and its lands in honor of his service. He’d fought for Camelot for years before he broke his leg badly in a border skirmish. He’s had a limp ever since, but it didn’t affect his ability to govern a town. The place has grown like a weed since he took over. And it’s better defended now, too.”

“I’m guessing by that little speech that you’d prefer to take it back from Pynell peacefully, without burning out Lanval or tearing down his walls?” Bedivere asked.

“I would prefer that, yes,” Arthur said dryly. “I don’t want to have to rebuild the city with the Saxons at our backs.”

“That would put a damper on our summer plans,” Bedivere said, equally as droll.

Leon chuckled but quickly sobered. “I remember fighting with Sir Lanval in a few of those skirmishes when I was a squire. He’s a sensible man. Maybe not the cleverest, but he can see through a brick wall in time.”

“How’s that supposed to help us?”

“It means that I think Lanval will be able to see through Pynell’s lies before we have to take drastic action,” Leon said. He grabbed a stick and gestured at the model. “There’s a market inside the gates. I’m guessing that the people from the countryside have moved in there for now. They’d have brought what they could of their winter stores, and if they combine that with what the townspeople have saved over, they’ll have plenty to eat until the end of spring. But they’ll want to get into the fields long before then, or they’ll have nothing for next winter.”

“You think the farmers will be pushing Lanval to open the gates before long?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, I do. A knight of Camelot can put his principles before his belly, but you can be sure the common folk won’t give a whit what the nobles are gossiping about if their children are going hungry,” Leon said.

“That would be a long time off,” Arthur mused. “And I’d rather their children didn’t have the chance to go hungry in the meantime.” He lifted his gaze from the model city to the real one a quarter of a mile away. The upper fortress where Lanval, his family, and the city’s upper crust lived had been built upon a rocky hill and was surrounded by strong stone walls that flowed down the hill to encompass the majority of the lower city. While the new sections weren’t yet guarded by high stone walls, the wooden palisades that had been constructed in the meantime rose high above a ditched half-filled with water and ice. Attacking Venta Belgarum would be a costly affair, both in lives and gold. Not to mention the possibility that it might cost him his crown.

Arthur sighed and tossed his stick into the fire. “The army is a few days behind us. There isn’t much we can do until it arrives except to stand here and remind them that the King of Camelot is waiting for them.”

Bedivere scowled. “Given our position right now, you’re the king of a handful of tents. Lanval doesn’t have much reason to take you seriously.”

“He will when the army gets here,” Leon said.

“In a few days. That’s enough time for Lanval to decide Pynell has the right of it and make for the eastern marches with a company of his men and leave us eating his dust,” Bedivere said darkly.

“If Sir Lanval is anything like the man I remember him to be, he’ll take his time before acting, one way or another. And if he’s changed in all that time, the army will make him think twice about following Pynell’s lead.” Arthur put all the confidence he could muster into his voice, giving the others each a long, steady look. 

“There are an awful lot of ‘ifs’ in there,” Bedivere muttered.

“Then we’ll keep a weather eye out if they try to run for it,” Leon said. “We’ll find a way through regardless.”

Bedivere snorted and stared into the fire. “Do you think Merlin would be able to look into our futures and point out a way forward?”

Arthur chuckled. “No. He’d remind me that his gods send him their messages when they choose and that he can’t conjure a prophecy out of thin air.”

“Well. At least he’d be able to stop an arrow.”

“He could do that,” Arthur said. He turned his gaze from the campfire to the stars. Was Merlin looking up at those same stars and listening to whatever it was he heard when he stared up at them? Or what he tucked away in some shepherd’s hut, where the peace and quiet and fresh air could erase the shadows under his eyes? “Do you think…”

“Think what?”

Arthur took a breath, licked his lips, and tried again. “Do you think Lanval will listen to Pynell’s rumors? About Merlin?”

“Which ones?” Leon asked. “He’s put a few of them out there.”

“You mean the ones where Merlin slips into your bed when the queen's not there?” Bedivere asked bluntly. 

"I wouldn't have put it like that," Arthur said. 

"No, you would have muddled it up while trying to be delicate about it,” Bedivere said. “You’re too worried about making things sound pretty. Just come out and say it.”

Leon gave Bedivere a sidelong look. “A king can’t always say the first thing that pops into his mind. He might offend someone he shouldn’t.” 

Bedivere rolled his eyes. “He can at least be honest around us.”

“I’m right here,” Arthur said. “And I’m capable of being honest. I worry about what the nobility will think of all this. With Pynell. And Merlin.”

“Bugger what they think,” Bedivere muttered.

“That’s not helpful.”

“He’s not wrong, though,” Leon said, unexpectedly rising to Bedivere’s defense. “Does it matter if Sir Lanval believes what Pynell says about Merlin? Does it matter if anyone believes them? Right now, Pynell’s trying to claw his way out of a hole. He’d probably say the trees in the forest were going to start walking around and killing everyone because Merlin made them do it if he thought it would help his cause. He’s desperate, and people will know that.”

“Talking trees,” Bedivere snorted. “That’d be the day. But beyond Pynell being a desperate clod, does it matter what he says about Merlin in the long run? You should take your clue from him. Most people still think magic is evil, and what does Merlin do? He keeps doing his duty, day in and day out. Hell, I saw him help a man who’d spat in his face half a minute earlier. People are going to say awful things no matter what you do. It’s in their nature. You can either start cutting their tongues out and turn into your father, or you can carry on despite them.”

“You’re not Merlin’s only friend, Arthur,” Leon said. “There are others who will stand by him. We’ll defend him if we need to.” 

“I appreciate that. I’m sure he would, too, if you could get him to admit it,” Arthur said. He tried to imagine Merlin’s expression if he could have heard the present conversation. He’d probably be blushing or doing his level best to disappear into the shrubbery. Arthur looked up into the forest surrounding the valley as though he could locate some little spark of light that would indicate the sorcerer’s presence out there in the darkness. 

“He does like to keep himself to himself,” Bedivere said. A wry smile suddenly twisted his lips. “But give him a reason to, and he’ll make you feel like the grandest idiot who ever walked the Earth.”

Arthur and Leon both looked at him, eyebrows raised, silently urging him to tell the story of the time Merlin had made Bedivere feel like a grand idiot, but Bedivere kept his mouth shut, clearly unwilling to reveal his moment of stupidity.

“I’ll get it out of you someday,” Arthur said. “Or I’ll ask Merlin on one of those many, many days where he’s annoyed with Camelot’s knights, and he’ll tell me everything just to spite you.”

“We’ll have to do our best to keep him happy, then,” Leon said, laughing. Then he sobered. “Those of us who know Merlin also know the truth about him. We know he’s not leading you around by the nose or trying to gain power for himself. You can’t convince every person in the kingdom that he’s a good man. They’ve believed magic is evil for too long for that. But Merlin doesn’t stay here for the people’s sake. Or ours. He stays for you, and you know his worth. It will be your faith in him, more than anything else, that will show the people that he’s trustworthy.”

Arthur smiled faintly and stared into the fire, wishing Merlin was there to hear this praise. He didn’t hear enough of it. That would have to change whenever he returned from whatever sojourn he had sent himself to. 

“If Merlin hasn’t run away screaming yet, he’s not going to,” Bedivere said. “What you need to do is find a way to get into Venta Belgarum so you can arrest Pynell and rid yourself of the true evil.”

“I wouldn’t call Pynell evil,” Leon said cautiously.

“Isn’t he? After threatening to overthrow his king and plunge the kingdom into civil war while the Saxons are on our doorstep? That’s treason. He’d bring ruin and death onto his people because he’s obsessed with hating one man. He’s a traitor and a fool at best.” Bedivere spat into the fire. “If war is in our future, I’d rather have it come from the Saxons.”

“I would, too, if it comes to war at all,” Arthur said softly, staring at the distant lights of Venta Belgarum and wishing that he was looking at them from within the city walls, and not from this little circle of light on the plain below. He did not relish the thought of burning those walls or tearing down the gate; he wanted that even less than he wanted war with the Saxons. His countrymen were huddled within, praying that their king did not set fire to the city, the way Uther likely would have done to root out an enemy.

Abruptly, Arthur stood and walked to the edge of the firelight, arms folded tightly, his gaze fixed on Venta Belgarum. Fire and famine were not options in this fight, and Merlin was not there to open the gates with magic. Arthur would have to rely on his wits, which felt as though they were stuck in the mud. 

Uther would have burned the walls and taken Venta Belgarum by force. Arthur would not do that.

Merlin would have opened the gates with magic so the knights could simply ride in. Arthur could not do that.

So what would Arthur Pendragon do to reclaim his authority in a city held by his enemy?

“We need to talk to them,” he said suddenly, voice loud in the quiet. “We’ll ride toward the gates at noon and wait for them to send an emissary out to negotiate. They’ll know their king is here and willing to talk.”

“And what if they don’t come out?”

“Then we’ll come back the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that,” Arthur said. “We’ll wait ‘til summer if it comes to that, but I don’t think it will. Lanval’s no fool. He’ll see the wisdom in negotiating. And if he doesn’t, he’ll hear it from the people when they can’t get out to sow their fields. They might care about Pynell and his accusations right now, but the warmer it gets, the more anxious they’ll be to plant their crops. The longer they have to wait, the more they’ll complain about being stuck inside the walls while the king stands outside waiting for Lanval to come out.”

Bedivere raised an eyebrow, his brow furrowing. “And you expect the men of the army to wait around with you?”

“Yes. They will wait here with me, with utmost patience. I won’t bring violence upon Venta Belgarum unless they bring it upon us first. We will wait here until Lanval comes out or until the Saxons arrive. Whichever one comes first.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


As promised, Arthur rode toward the gates of Venta Belgarum at noon, flanked by Leon and Bedivere, with Gareth behind them carrying the dragon banner of Camelot. They stopped half a furlong from the walls. Within bowshot-- as Bedivere had pointed out-- but also close enough that they could recognize familiar faces-- as Arthur had pointed out. They were armored and yet wore no helms. Arthur wanted the guards to see their king waiting for them.

They waited until the sun was low in the sky. No one came out to speak with them, nor did anyone hail them on the second day, or the third. 

It wasn’t until the fourth day when the army had arrived and set up rows upon rows of tents and sent the sound of a military camp’s daily life echoing across the low valley and into the city. No one within the walls could pretend they didn’t notice the sudden appearance of men and arms. And they couldn’t pretend that Arthur and the knights weren’t in the field below their city, waiting day in and day out for someone to come out and talk to them. 

It was Sir Lanval himself who finally emerged with a wide-eyed squire and a squinting officious-looking fellow who looked like he would rather be locked in a scriptorium than be on the back of a horse. Arthur couldn’t tell if Lanval’s stiff posture was from his old injury, or if the old knight was afraid his king might do something rash. 

Arthur would have liked to reassure the man, but he held his tongue and waited for the riders to stop. They inclined their heads, and Lanval nudged his horse forward a few steps. Leon and Bedivere gripped their sword hilts, but Arthur stilled them with a motion. “Greetings, Sir Lanval. I’m glad you’ve finally decided to come out and speak with me.”

Lanval winced, then drew himself up and straightened his shoulders. “Forgive me, your majesty. I have heard strange stories about the goings-on in Camelot, and they’ve left me wondering what’s been happening in the wider world.”

“I take it Lord Pynell has been staying with you?” Arthur asked.

“Ah, yes.” A faint flush spread across Lanval’s face and he cleared his throat, eyeing Arthur’s companions. “He and a handful of his men arrived several days ago with wild tales about you being… suborned by a sorcerer. Given some of the tales we’d heard out of court before-- your father being murdered by a witch, your sorcerer being burnt to death and coming back to life. Your finding a fiery magical sword in a stone and pulling it free when no one else could touch it.” Lanval shook his head and gave Arthur a plaintive look. “Please understand, Sire. It all seems so unreal, and I’m a simple man. It’s hard to know what to believe these days.”

Arthur huffed a laugh. “All three of those stories are true to one degree or another. I’ll tell you the real truth of them someday if you’ll let me. But Pynell’s story about my being manipulated by Merlin is not true.”

Lanval looked doubtful. “Forgive me, Sire, but wouldn’t a man being controlled by a sorcerer say the same thing? He might believe he’s acting of his own free will, but…”

“Then there’s nothing I can say here and now that will convince you that I’ve been slandered,” Arthur said. “But I can ask you to think about what we’ve done while we’ve been here. This is the fourth day I’ve ridden out here and cooled my heels while you pace behind your walls trying to decide what to do. If Merlin were controlling me the way Pynell claims he is, don’t you think we would have taken some kind of action by now? If Merlin were here, he could have torn down the gates or set fire to the walls. But everything is standing as it was a week ago. If Merlin were controlling me, don’t you think the army behind me would be forming up ranks and preparing for a siege? But listen to them. Do they sound like men preparing for battle, or do they sound like men preparing for a tournament?”

As if on cue, a breeze carried a faint strain of warm laughter to them. 

“I’ve known M’lord Pynell for a long time. I’ve had good reason to trust him all these years. I find it hard to believe that he would make up stories like this for his own ends. Especially when his allegations are so serious.” Lanvall stared past Arthur toward the camp and the hundreds of knights and soldiers going about their work. “I don’t know this Merlin, but I’ve heard about him and his magic. Merchants coming through call him the Great Pagan. Some say he burned Blackheath to the ground and others say he’s the one who stopped the fire in Camelot. I don’t know which story is true. Maybe they both are. Maybe they’re both made up.”

“They both true to some degree,” Arthur said softly. 

Lanval glanced back at him and nodded. “Most rumors have some grain of truth, but it’s not easy to figure out which grain is truth, and which is a lie.” He sighed, his jaw working like he was chewing on his words. “Will you grant me a day to think all of this over, Sire? It’s one thing to decide for myself. It’s another thing altogether to decide for my family and everyone else in Venta Belgarum. If I make the wrong decision, all their lives could be forfeit.” 

The tense knot in Arthur's gut tightened a little more. He longed to shout at the old knight to make a decision then and there, but that would have been Uther’s response. He took a deep breath instead and nodded. “I understand your responsibilities better than anyone else here, Sir Lanval. So be it. You have one day to think about this decision. We will meet here again tomorrow on one condition.”

“Sire?”

“You will bring Pynell with you. He has made serious allegations against me and has threatened to send the kingdom to war with itself. I want to see him face to face.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He’ll complain, but I’ll make sure he’s here.” Lanval gathered his horse’s reins, then paused. “Thank you, Sire. I know you didn’t have to grant me the time. I’m grateful for it.”

Arthur inclined his head, smiling faintly. “I was prepared to wait for you until harvest. One day is nothing compared to that.”

For a moment, Lanval looked like he was going to be ill, then he straightened. “Until tomorrow, then, Your Majesty.”

“Until tomorrow.”

They waited until Lanval and his little company reached the shadow of the walls before heading back to the camp. A line of knights waited anxiously, barely waiting for them to dismount before barraging them with questions. What happened out there? Was Lanval sheltering Pynell? Was Lanval as much of a traitor as Pynell? Would it come to a fight in the end?

Arthur waved most of them away and strode to his tent. There weren’t so many men who would follow him in there; he might have the chance to get a word in edgewise. 

“You do realize that if Lanval is on Pynell’s side, he could help Pynell sneak over the wall in the middle of the night so he can flee to the eastern marches? And then all of this would be for nothing?” Bedivere’s tone was just shy of furious, and Leon put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. 

“I do realize that, Bedivere. And if Pynell escapes tonight, then I’ll call myself a fool for being too trusting. And then we’ll run the both of them down. But if there’s a chance, however small it is, that we can resolve this without a fight, then I will take that chance.”

“What’s going on? What’d Lanval have to say?” Gwaine asked, his eyes darting back and forth between Arthur and Bedivere like they were playing catch with a hot coal. 

“I gave Sir Lanval a day to think about who he should support. Me or Pynell. We’re to meet again at noon tomorrow, and Lanval has promised to bring Pynell with him. I want to see the man in the flesh, make him explain himself to me face to face. I’m tired of hearing his words secondhand,” Arthur said. He glanced around, unconsciously looking for Merlin. He could use a dose of the sorcerer’s implacable serenity. 

“What makes you so sure Lanval will pick Pynell over Arthur? We’re the ones sitting here with an army at our backs,” Gwaine said. 

“Lanval’s from your father’s era. He fought against sorcery and would have kept doing so except he snapped his leg in half,” Bedivere said. With the fierce scowl and his unmatching eyes, he looked half-mad. “Have you met many men who were in King Uther’s favor who are sympathetic to your ideas? What will we do if Lanval refuses to give up Pynell and shuts his gates on us again?”

“You forget yourself, Sir Bedivere.” Arthur straightened, glad for the armor he still wore and the shining sword at his side and the strength that it displayed. On another day, he might welcome Bedivere’s questions, but not today. Today, had he glimpsed the end of a longstanding problem, one that had weighed on his mind since before he’d been crowned king. For years now, Pynell had been like a thorn festering in his side. One he could feel, but could not touch. And now, at last, the means to his end might be at hand. “If Sir Lanval helps Pynell escape, we’ll run them both down like dogs, and they can face the headsman together. If you’re so anxious to catch Lanval in a lie, you can place men below the walls and take the midnight watch yourself.”

Bedivere flinched and took a step back, his gaze falling to the floor at Arthur’s feet. “Yes, Sire.” He had not missed the barely contained anger in Arthur’s voice, though he had apparently needed the reminder that Arthur was king and that his word was law, especially in a place that could as easily become a battlefield as the wheatfield it should have been. Especially in a camp where tent walls kept out the rain but didn’t stop an argument from wending its way into the ears of the common soldier. 

“Lancelot and Gwaine.” Arthur spread his hands flat against his desk to stop their trembling. From anger or from anxiety he could not say. He did not want the men to speculate. 

The two knights gave each other worried, sidelong glances before Gwaine spoke. “Sire?”

“Go and find Merlin. He’s been gone for days. I know he said he would send word if something happened, but something might have happened before he could send a message. He has a rare talent for finding trouble.”

He might have been imagining it, but it seemed that both knights heaved subtle sighs of relief before they nodded. 

“Get to your tasks then. Leon, stay with me. Bedivere, pull as many men as you see fit to watch the walls. And send Gareth in when you find him. If he’s going to be a king someday, he needs to know what it means to bring a lord of the realm to justice.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


After a long and bitterly cold night, the next day dawned surprisingly warm and sunny, as though the skies had it in mind to taunt Arthur for having spent the most of the night lying awake, thinking of every way today’s meeting with Sir Lanval could end in disaster. So far, his fears had not been justified. There had been no alarms in the night and no chance for Bedivere to wake him with an unspoken ‘I told you so’. 

But there were plenty of other ways things could go awry. His imagination told him so. 

He wished Merlin were there to allay his fears and spout some nonsense about everything happening for a reason, or at least assuring Arthur that his chosen path was the wisest course, that it would lead to peace in the end and not to a battle that would leave his reign in a smoldering ruin in the fields below Venta Belgarum. Or perhaps Merlin would merely say that he wasn’t a prophet and that he only passed on the cryptic messages his gods left for him in the wind or rain or stars. 

For a moment, Arthur let himself be angry at Merlin for disappearing now, of all times. But as quickly as the anger rose, it extinguished itself. Merlin was a free man, after all, and not bound to Arthur by anything stronger than the bonds of friendship for all that he had followed Arthur through every predicament since they had met, put himself between Arthur and every danger, had nearly died more times than Arthur could know, all for the sake of friendship. 

‘I would follow you off a cliff,’ he had said, as though Arthur was worthy of such foolhardy loyalty. 

He wished he could allow Merlin all the time away he needed, but the events of the world kept churning forward day after day, showing Arthur how constant his vigilance needed to be to keep the shadows from falling over Camelot. And while Merlin might say, over and over, that he was simply a servant, Arthur knew he was more than that. Merlin was a better friend than he had earned, and right now Arthur needed his friend, not another servant. 

Perhaps that desire was a selfish one, though. 

Arthur sighed and took up his sword, drawing the blade a handspan out of its sheath. There were words inscribed on either side of the blade. ‘Take me up’, it said on one side; ‘cast me away’ it said on the other. When Arthur had drawn the sword from the stone all those months ago, Merlin had said the words were there to remind him that a good king knew when war was necessary, and when it was time to put the sword away and make peace. Arthur wasn’t sure if he had the wisdom to know the difference.

Without Merlin there to guide him, perhaps he could take a cue from the sword itself. 

He took a breath and looked down at the blade. 

‘Cast me away’. 

Some of the tension melted from his shoulders. He would not put the sword away and ride out to face Lanval and Pynell unarmed, but there might be a way forward that didn’t end with Venta Belgarum in flames and his people cursing his name. 

He slid the sword into its sheath, buckled it at his waist, and strode out into the light. 

“The king!” someone shouted, and the camp seemed to ripple as the men knelt in his honor. They were dressed for war, and Arthur suppressed a shudder at the sight. If he failed, if his negotiations went awry, the soldiers they faced would be men of Camelot, their brothers in arms set against each other by rumors and lies. 

Leon approached with Canrith’s reins in hand. The horse had been groomed until his white coat shone like the sun, the barding and tack newly polished and gleaming brightly enough to match Arthur’s armor. Leon and his horse, though not as richly bedecked as Arthur, were arrayed in their best, as was Gareth, who carried the standard of Camelot. Even Bedivere, whose usual state was one of dishevelment, looked regal in his dark armor. So, too, did the honor guard that rode into the field behind them. In the noonday sun, they represented the glory of Camelot, an image of what boys with their wooden swords aspired to be, who girls dreamed of marrying, and what aging lords told stories of in their twilight years. 

They would not, Arthur promised himself, be the vanguard of a battle.

The field was empty when they reached the appointed spot. The sun was high and blazingly bright. Arthur squinted against it, his gaze landing on the faraway shadows of the trees. For a moment, he imagined that Merlin was among those shadows waiting for Pynell to appear, like Arthur was, and hoping that it would end peacefully. 

Bedivere muttered something under his breath. Arthur glanced at him and took in a breath to ask him what was wrong when a low groan emanated from the gates. They all looked up, eyes on the slowly opening doors to see what Sir Lanval had in store for them. 

The old knight led the way on a bay palfrey, with Pynell a step behind him on a high-stepping sorrel. Arthur took a brief and childish delight in the fact that Pynell’s rich clothes were ill-suited to him-- made for a younger and thinner man. The borrowed finery made him look untidy and undistinguished, and if it hadn’t been for his glowering expression, Arthur could have imagined him as a player in a mummer’s troupe. 

Arthur heard the metallic scraping of armor as his knights and honor guard shifting positions, readying their weapons at the sight of the armed men that followed. He remained calm, for while Lanval’s men were armed with spears, they held them loosely and their postures were unconcerned, if watchful. The same wide-eyed boy from yesterday rode behind Lanval and carried Pynell’s banner. 

Bedivere cursed softly. “Steady,” Arthur said under his breath. That banner could carry many meanings, and Lanval having chosen Pynell’s side was only one of them. “Well met, Sir Lanval. Lord Pynell,” he called out. 

“Your Majesty,” they replied, heads bowed. Pynell looked up first, his gaze flitting across each face in Arthur’s company. His scowl deepened for a moment, then his face took on its usual stony expression. Was he disconcerted at Merlin’s absence?

“Have you thought about your answer after yesterday’s conversation, Sir Lanval?” Arthur asked. The field was silent, save for the fluttering of the banners as the breeze whipped through them.

“I have, Sire.” Lanval nudged his horse forward a few steps to close the gap between him and Arthur’s men. 

“And what is your answer?”

Lanval looked over his shoulder to Pynell, who nodded, a small, sly smile pulling at his lips. “I spent all night thinking, Sire. M’lord Pynell has told me many things these past several days, and his argument seems reasonable. What he does now, he says he does from a love of Camelot, not for any desire to further his power. He has said that he will remain a loyal subject to Your Majesty if you banish the sorcerer, Merlin, from the realm of Camelot. Then all will know that he is not controlling you by magical means. Or others.”

Arthur grimaced, then nodded. “Lord Pynell has said many things. But I did not ask what he demanded, Sir Lanval. I asked what decision you made.”

Lanval gestured for the boy to join him. He was hardly more than a child, trembling so much in his saddle that Pynell’s banner shook. “I don’t have so much life left to me that I need to worry about my future, Sire. But I do worry for my children’s future, and my grandchildren’s.” He patted the boy on the shoulder, then raised his hand, his fist clenched. 

As one, Lanval’s guards lowered their spears, ringing Pynell in a deadly circle that promised to skewer him if he attempted to flee. 

Pynell’s eyes widened. “Majesty!” he shouted, though whether it was a plea or a protest Arthur couldn’t say. Nor did he care. 

Lanval leaned over to whisper into the boy’s ear. He nodded, held the banner’s pole to one side, and let it fall. The brightly colored cloth landed in a heap in the mud, its fall silencing Pynell’s protests. 

A raucous cheer rose from the camp. The noise of it drowned out Lanval’s next words as the old knight dug into a saddlebag and pulled out a cloth. This, he held high so it would flutter in the wind. 

Arthur stared at it a moment, and before he could ask what Lanval intended to surrender, a bell began tolling inside the city’s walls. Soon after, the great gates groaned again, opening wide as Lanval bowed low in his saddle. “Your Majesty,” he called out over the noise, “Venta Belgarum is yours.”

It took all of Arthur’s control to keep from slouching with relief or letting himself grin like an idiot at the sudden turn of events. For years, Pynell had been a thorn in his side, opposing him at every turn, arguing, defying, insulting, and doing everything short of betraying him until word had reached Arthur of the man’s treacherous intentions. He had sought to hold Venta Belgarum against its rightful king, and conspired to inflict civil war upon the people of Camelot. And now, at the word of a knight of Uther’s old guard, he had been brought low. 

He blinked at the tableau before him, hoping it wasn’t a dream. When he opened his eyes again, though, it was still real and another cheer rose behind him as two of Arthur’s honor guard pulled Pynell from his saddle and bound his hands behind him. He had ridden onto the field with his head held high, his pride gathered around him like a fine cloak. Now, he would walk back to Venta Belgarum in shackles, his borrowed finery spattered with mud. 

“It’s over,” Arthur breathed. 

“Sire?” Lanval was leaning toward him, an uncertain look on his face. “May I have your pardon for delaying you here?”

He stared back at the old knight, studying him for signs of treachery, wondering if there was some ulterior motive at work. But no, there wasn’t. A man wasn’t granted power over a city without having an understanding of the political winds that could blow him into oblivion if he made the wrong decision. He had tried a king’s patience and betrayed an old comrade’s trust. He would expect to receive sidelong glances from everyone who mattered. Who might he betray next to keep the king’s favor? Would everything he said now be for the sake of political expediency? 

Well. Whatever happened next, Lanval would be desperate to stay on Arthur’s good side, and even if every word he said was for the sake of political theater, it was a step ahead of where they had been yesterday. If Arthur kept his wits about himself, he could turn the theater into reality. He took Lanval’s hand. “You have my pardon, Sir Lanval.”

The old knight’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you, Sire. May I invite you and your knights to dinner with my family?”

“I’d like that,” Arthur said. “I look forward to meeting them, and to finally seeing the inside of your city. It’s been years since I was last here. I can already see that it’s changed.”

“Yes, sire. I think you’ll be pleased with the way things are now.”

* * *

  
  


That night, Arthur, Leon, Bedivere, and a dozen other knights, along with Sir Lanval and his family settled in the old castle’s great hall for the evening meal, a humble affair of roasted beef, cooked apples, thick bread with yellow butter, and golden honey wine. It was comfortable and warm and the conversation, punctuated with giddy laughter, flowed as freely as the wine. 

Arthur sat back in his chair, enjoying a sense of well-being that had nothing to do with the half-full glass in his hand. 

After the procession of knights had wound through the city streets, from the market up to the castle, he and Lanval had escorted their prisoner and his guards to the dungeons below the keep where Pynell would remain alongside his henchmen until Arthur was ready to return home in two or three days. Pynell had maintained a stony silence throughout, apparently deciding to cling to the scraps of his dignity instead of pleading his innocence or attempting to assure Arthur of his loyalty.

His response was unsurprising. Through all his life Pynell had been proud, certain that the honors heaped upon him by Uther were the outward signs of his inner righteousness. He would die as he had lived, unyielding and unbending, convinced that his vision of the world was good and just, that without him Camelot would fall into ruin-- justly so, for no one would listen to him. 

Arthur took a long drink of wine and tried to think of something else. He had gone to the dungeon to witness Pynell's imprisonment. He would have to speak to the man later, before or during his trial. He was not looking forward to it.

He swirled the dregs of wine in his cup and turned to Lanval. The old knight sat back in his chair and picked at the crumbs on his plate as he watched his family chattering away with or at the knights-- particularly his youngest daughter, Enide, who was all of fourteen and yet had already learned the fine art of flirtation, and was practicing on Percival from across the table. The big knight was attempting to ignore her, but his flushed face hadn’t been caused by the wine. 

“Percival’s a good man. Young, but smart enough to know what lines are not to be crossed,” Arthur said softly, leaning toward Lanval so only he could hear. 

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Lanval replied. “She’s clever, too. I worry that she’ll have half the men in the kingdom wrapped around her little finger by the time she’s sixteen. My wife, Celia, was the same way. I still don’t know why she chose me. And some days I’m not sure why she stays.”

Arthur could have made a few guesses. Lanval may not have been the handsomest knight in his day, but there was a reassuring steadiness to him that signaled to those around him that, once his path was chosen, he would remain upon it until the bitter end. Perhaps that was why Pynell had come here and not made for the eastern marches. “Is Lady Celia the reason you sided with me?”

“Partly. And it was partly because of the chickens.” Lanval grinned as he watched the said lady hoist one of her grandchildren, a towheaded toddler, onto her hip and chastise Enide for her pertness. 

“Chickens…?” Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“Chickens,” Lanval confirmed. “You see, Celia badgers me to take a walk in the evenings when the weather is fine. She says the exercise will do me good. Keep my bad leg from locking up and getting worse. She’s right, but sometimes I think she wants to get rid of me for a while. But anyway. I was out for my walk last night, thinking about what to do. I wasn’t lying when I said Pynell’s stories had a ring of truth to them. History’s full of kings and emperors who had someone standing behind the throne and making them into puppets. From what I’ve heard of this Merlin of yours, it sounds like he’s powerful enough to turn anyone into a puppet if he had a mind to.”

Arthur was tempted to object on his friend’s behalf but held his tongue. If Lanval had believed Pynell’s stories, even for a moment, then any protestation he made might sound like some twisted confirmation of them. Better to keep his peace and let a faint and backhanded compliment pass. Merlin would have done the same.

And he wanted to know where the chickens entered into the story.

“But anyway.” Lanval sipped his wine to wet his lips. “I was out walking, heading toward the market and thinking about how peaceful the evening was, and how it was at odds with the decision I needed to make, when these two chickens came running at me, making a racket like the world was ending. A couple of children came running after them, laughing like chasing chickens was the best thing that could ever happen to them.” He paused and smiled fondly, his gaze flitting from one family member to the next before he continued. 

“That was where I realized my choice was easier than I thought it was. It wasn’t trying to decide if my king was being controlled by some pagan sorcerer. The only thing I needed to do was decide if I wanted to be part of the past or part of the future. Have you ever stood and listened to children laughing, Sire?”

Arthur started at the unexpected question. He couldn’t help but remember the cries of the Druid children his men had slain so long ago. Surely they had once laughed like Lanval’s chicken-chasers… “No. I’ve never stopped to take the time,” he forced himself to say at last. 

“It’s the best sound in the world. Better than the finest bard’s song. The only thing that comes close is hearing your beloved say she loves you.” Lanval’s eyes found Celia again. When she looked back at him, her smile made twenty years fall away from her face. “You haven’t been king for long, Sire, but you’ve been making decisions for this kingdom for a while. And in that time, this land has prospered. Venta Belgarum is wealthy. Merchants come and go as they will for the first time in ages. Even the tenant farmers are bringing in better harvests. Right now they’re scared and anxious to get back to their fields, but they’ve been prospering. Your father may have lifted Camelot from its knees, but you’re the one making her strong. So my choice was an easy one. I could choose Pynell, the old guard, and another thirty years of war, or I could choose you and a chance to keep hearing children laughing.”

“With the Saxons on our shores, we could be in for another thirty years of war regardless of Pynell,” Arthur warned.

“It may come to that. But at least the lords of Camelot won’t be at each others’ throats and putting the people in the middle of their fighting. And all over one sorcerer.” Lanval drained his cup and thunked it down on the table. “From the way Pynell talked, you’d think Merlin wielded lightning bolts, poisoned his enemies with magical brews, and wouldn’t let you talk without whispering in your ear everything he wanted you to say. He, uh, made other insinuations, too.”

“So I’ve heard,” Arthur said dryly. 

Lanval huffed. “So when you showed up on my doorstep, I was expecting some black figure to be sitting next to you. All of Pynell’s stories said you wouldn’t go anywhere without him. And here you are without a sorcerer at your side, making decisions and taking action without anyone whispering in your ear. Made all the stories fall a bit flat. Of course, now I want to meet this Merlin and see what he’s really like. Maybe I could ask him why he clings to the old superstitions.”

“He wouldn’t call them superstitions.” Arthur wouldn’t call them superstitions, either. He had felt the presence of the old gods, had sensed their preternatural fingers running down his spine, had shivered at the touch of intangible blades at his throat. He wondered why these old men, warriors of his father’s generation, had so quickly forgotten the power of the old religion, the curses and fires and plagues that sorcerers could unleash. 

Or had they forgotten because it was easier to do so? Easier to bury the awful memories and move on with their lives. Easier to tell their children and grandchildren of their victories, as though they had defeated pirates or enemies from across the sea, and not annihilated those who had always been here.

Arthur stared into the dregs of his wine before downing them with a grimace. 

“It’s getting to be that time of the day when Celia starts to think about chasing me out of my own home. What say we beat her to it and go out of our own accord, Sire?” Lanval asked.

“I would appreciate a tour,” Arthur replied. He stood and offered the old knight a hand, which he gratefully accepted. 

Their progress through the town was slow. Lanval may have been a healthy man for his age, but his long-ago broken leg had not healed properly and was noticeably twisted. Only his wife’s encouragement and his bull-headed determination kept him from retiring to his chair for good, where he would have grown sick and distant from his people. Instead, he walked the streets along with laundresses, blacksmiths, and lowly pig boys, greeting many of them by name and receiving genuinely warm greetings in return. Uther had made a wise decision when he granted the lordship-- if not the title-- of this place to Lanval. 

And as they walked farther, Arthur followed that chain of thought back another step, wondering how much of Lanval’s familiarity with the townsfolk was caused by Celia’s insistence that her husband go out walking when the weather was fair. It was harder to dismiss people as common and therefore less important when you knew them on sight, had played catch with their children, and could laugh at their antics when they chased chickens through the market. 

Arthur suddenly wished he had a hundred Lanvals to keep watch over the places that he could not

The last of the daylight had faded from the sky and they were making their slow return to the keep when Lanval led Arthur to a low wall overlooking the lower town. The old knight leaned against it and looked out over the scattering of lights below. He was quiet for a long time, then sighed. “Earlier, I said I didn’t want to see Camelot plunged into another long war, but the more I think about it, the more I think we won’t be able to avoid it.”

“The Saxons,” Arthur murmured. “But at least we won’t be at war with ourselves while they threaten our shores.”

“That might not matter in the end. How long have the five kingdoms been at war with each other? Longer than you’ve been alive. Hell, it’s been longer than I’ve been alive. We can’t find it within ourselves to settle our scores anywhere other than the battlefield. If things stay as they are, we’ll be fighting each other over some petty bit of scrubland while the Saxons sail upriver and take our cities one by one. They won’t have to fight us to defeat us. They’ll stand back and let us do it to ourselves.”

“Do you think we’re that disunited?” Arthur asked.

“I think half the kingdoms would burn each other to the ground if they had the chance,” Lanval growled. “Rheged’s been at our throats for years. Cenred had Camelot on its knees a time or two, and Urien’s no better. Rumor has it he’s granting the Saxons safe passage in his lands. God help us.” Lanval’s jaw clenched, then he went on. “King Alined of Deorham might be dead, but his little brother is as much of a snake as he was, though less foolish. You did a wise thing when you defeated the Sarrum, put Hywel on the throne, and took his son as a hostage. But I fear that the moment you send Gareth back to his father, you’ll have another king who would gladly turn on you. Our only true ally is Nemeth, and they’re ruled by a woman.”

Arthur bit his tongue to keep from pointing out how delicately he was ruled by Celia. “I think Queen Mithian may prove to be a better ruler than you think.”

Lanval harrumphed. “You missed a great chance when you turned down Nemeth’s offer of a marriage alliance, Sire.”

“I had my reasons,” Arthur said firmly, not wanting to discuss the matter anymore. 

“I’m sure they were good ones.” Lanval did not sound convinced. “Still, it was a golden opportunity to unite two of the kingdoms for good. We’ll need alliances, and soon.”

“And what is your suggestion?”

It was quiet for a while. The market’s noise was dying down as darkness fully closed over the city. High above, the first stars were shining. It was an ordinary night, and yet it felt portentous to Arthur, as though he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.

When he finally spoke, Lanval’s voice was soft, but his words carried through the air like the clear ringing of bells. “A united Albion. The five kingdoms united for a common purpose. No more of this endless squabbling over a hillside or a stretch of river. We could hold back the Saxons and whoever comes after them. Together. By itself, Camelot could spend its sons holding back the tide and have it come to nothing. Same with the other kingdoms. But if we stopped fighting among ourselves, we could hold back anything.”

Arthur sucked in a breath and shivered, though he could not say if it was from the chill in the air or from Lanval’s words. “The five kingdoms under one banner. Now there’s a dream.”

“Probably a foolish one,” Lanval said ruefully. “Urien’s already chosen the Saxons. Ban would be as likely to ally with Urien as with you. That leaves Hywel, who’d choose you out of fear for his son, and Queen Mithian. Although you scorned her, so maybe she’ll want nothing to do with Camelot.”

“I didn’t scorn her. Nemeth and Camelot are on good terms.”

“We gave them Gedref,” Lanval huffed.

“And now you’re complaining about some hills and a bit of shoreline. If the man who suggested unity can’t give up on an ancestral claim, then this alliance is already doomed,” Arthur said. Lanval made a sour face. “It’s worth the attempt, though. If we suggest it now, it might plant the seed of an idea. Perhaps they’ll think about it.”

“That’s all you can ask for, I think. Unless you plan to march to Deorham and Rheged to press the issue at swordpoint.”

“I want to ally with them, not conquer them,” Arthur said. Lanval had no reply, so the two of them stood silently, watching the stars above or the lights of the market below. It was a beautiful scene, with the town’s warm lantern light pushing back the rich blues and blacks of the night. Shouts and laughter wafted up to them, along with the scents of roasting meat from taverns and homes. For a moment, Arthur was perfectly content. “I should have come here before this so you and your people could know me better. The past few days didn’t have to happen.”

“You’ve faced many threats, Sire. It’s reasonable for you to stay in Camelot.”

“Is it? I’ve faced threats all my life, and I’ve survived them all. Some vague threat is no reason to hide behind walls while my people face hardship and war. Why should they fight for me if I can’t be bothered to show my face to them? Why should they disbelieve whatever wild story some nobleman tells them?” Arthur glanced over at Lanval, but it was too dark to read the old knight’s expression. “No. I won’t hide behind walls. It’s been too long since the King of Camelot rode out to meet his people. I should change that. This spring and summer, perhaps.”

“If you think it’s wise, Sire. You’d be welcome here in Venta Belgarum.”

“I had no doubt of that.” Arthur grinned and clapped Lanval on the shoulder. “We should return to the keep before your lady wife sends out a search party. I want to make a good impression on my people, not anger the women by keeping their husbands standing around in the dark.”

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“We found it!” Elayne practically danced into the room holding a piece of rolled-up parchment high above her head as though it were some grand prize she had won that she wanted to show off to the entire world. 

Guinevere looked up and winced at the crick in her neck. “What did you find?”

“The proclamation declaring Mistress Glynis the winner of the city’s weaving competition. Geoffrey found it rolled up inside one of his maps. He must have forgotten all about it after the council meeting yesterday. You should have seen the look on his face when he gave it to me. You’d have thought he was handing me a toad.” With a flourish, Elayne placed the parchment on the cleanest end of the desk. 

Guinevere glanced at it and smiled. “I’m afraid poor Geoffrey thinks that writing out proclamations like this is beneath him. Maybe when Father Gildas’s scriptorium is built, he can spare one of the monks to write them instead.” Geoffrey might sniff at the various competitions held in the lower town, but Guinevere knew how the craftspeople looked forward to showing off their skills in the hopes of being declared the winner and gaining new customers. The double handful of silver the winners took home didn’t hurt, either.

“I think Father Gildas would think the competitions were below him, too,” Elayne said as she flopped into a chair. “He always has a sour look on his face.”

“Perhaps he has a toad he’s trying to get rid of, too,” Linnet said from her seat by the window. She didn’t look up from her embroidery. 

“Sometimes it’s like every man in Camelot has a toad they don’t want. They’re always so grim.”

Guinevere smiled. “I’m sure everyone will be more cheerful when spring arrives for good. This winter’s been hard on everyone.”

“I hope so. Otherwise, I’ll have to collect all the toads in the forest and hand them out to all the men in town. Then they’ll have a reason to be sour-faced,” Elayne said primly, the sparkle in her eyes and the faint upturn of her lips betraying her sober mien. 

“You’ll get warts all over your hands if you do that,” Linnet warned.

Eyes widening, Elayne looked back and forth between Guinevere and Linnet. “Would I? I didn’t know toads could give you warts.” She looked down at her hands as though she expected her skin to suddenly erupt with crusty warts. 

“I don’t think they can,” Guinevere said. “Merlin told me that was an old wives’ tale to keep children from playing with toads.

“He should know.” Elayne cast a narrow-eyed glare at Linnet, who wore an innocent expression, as though she had truly believed the old tales about toads. 

Guinevere shook her head as she cleaned her reed pen before tucking it back into its place. It was a pleasure to have these women around to keep her company and help her with her endless tasks, but they were each skilled at winding each other up if they were bored. It was probably for the best that Niniane wasn’t there, or the toad conversation might have gone some esoteric and disturbing direction. She stacked the parchments neatly on top of the desk, then placed a smooth river rock on top to keep them in order. “We should go. I have to see the day’s audiences soon. I have a feeling there will be a crowd today, and I’d like a bit of a walk before facing it.”

Elayne hopped to her feet while Linnet, always more dignified, carefully set her embroidery aside and rose, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skirts. “Where shall we go?”

“Where whim takes us,” Guinevere said. “I want to stretch my legs before I start looking all hunched over.” 

“That would be uncomfortable. And not very pretty.” Elayne took her arm as they strolled into the hallway. It was an effort for her to keep from flouncing along, but Guinevere’s firm grasp on the crook of her elbow kept her at a more sedate pace. High spirits were a fine thing, but sometimes Elayne was exhausting.

“What do you suppose is happening at Venta Belgarum?” Linnet asked after a while. Her tone was casual, though Guinevere could hear the underlying edge.

“No frantic messengers have come back with terrible news, so I assume that things there aren’t too bad. Maybe it’s not going well, but it’s not going badly.” Until someone returned to tell her one way or the other, Guinevere chose to believe that Arthur’s mission was going to succeed. 

“I wish Pynell had choked on something a long time ago,” Linnet muttered, her words heated. “Then we wouldn’t have had to go through any of this.”

Guinevere grimaced at the heat in Linnet’s words but didn’t have the heart to chastise her for it. A lot of things would be different if Pynell had made different choices. Or if he’d had the misfortune of dying in battle years ago. 

But then, what else would be different now? If small events were like the pebbles that began an avalanche, what larger events would have changed? If a chance introduction hadn’t brought Guinevere into Morgana’s service all those years ago, she wouldn’t be queen now. If a twisted ankle had delayed Merlin on the road to Camelot, Arthur might be dead. Difficult as it was to accept, she was finding that sometimes you had to swallow the bitter pills of life to appreciate its sweetness. No one ever had a life of pure joy. Not even a queen.

“With luck, this will be the end of it with him,” Guinevere said firmly. “And then there will be something else to worry about.”

“That sounds cheerful,” Elayne said drolly. Then she gasped and let go of Guinevere’s arm to dash to the garden windows. “Look! There’s green grass. And snowdrops! Spring is almost here!”

She smiled despite herself, and it seemed Linnet was, too. They hurried to follow. Sure enough, tufts of vivid green grass poked through the last of the snow, and a handful of snowdrops bloomed in a patch of sunlight. It was the surest sign that spring was on its way, if not already there. 

“What are you all looking at?” said a curious voice.

Guinevere looked up, startled and feeling a little sheepish like she was still a maidservant caught being idle. She took a breath to steady herself. It was just Niniane, after all, and Gaius trailing her by a step. “The snowdrops are blooming.”

“Are they?” Niniane’s eyes lit up, and she crowded in next to Elayne, a grin spreading across her face at the sight of the little flowers. 

Guinevere stepped away from the window to join Gaius and watch her ladies be rendered speechless by the sight of a little spray of flowers. What would the knights think of them if they could see them now, lit by soft window light, their faces alight with the hope of spring? 

“The first flowers of spring always make people happy,” Gaius said softly, as unwilling as Guinevere to disrupt the scene before them. She glanced at him, noting that the color had returned to his face and he seemed to be breathing easier. He looked healthier than he had for months. Perhaps the warmer days ahead would restore his spirits as much as the mere thought of them seemed to be restoring everyone else’s.

“They’ve also given them a reason to be quiet,” Guinevere whispered back. “That never happens.”

Gaius chuckled. “The virtues of the season?”

“Indeed.” 

The three ladies held the lovely scene for another few moments until Niniane whispered something in Linnet’s ear. Linnet snorted with suppressed laughter, then didn’t bother to hide it. Her musical laugh rang through the hall. 

Elayne to look up, baffled. “What’s so funny? I want to know.” Niniane whispered whatever joke it was into her ear. The girl flushed, eyes widening as she slapped a hand over her mouth. “Niniane! That’s obscene!” she said, though she couldn’t hide her laughter. 

The stone hallway seemed to grow warmer and brighter with the sound of their laughing, like the pealing of silver bells. Guinevere smiled. “Whatever the joke was, I don’t want to hear it. Before it goes any further, though, I should remind you that I have audiences to see to and petitions to hear, and you all need to look dignified while I’m doing it.”

They gave each other sidelong glances, then simultaneously burst into another round of giggles. 

Guinevere shook her head and took Gaius’s arm. If her ladies couldn’t keep from laughing, then perhaps their giddiness would sweeten the moods of the people waiting for their audience with her. No one came to the queen to declare how pleased they were with the world or tell her how wonderful she was. She sighed, wondering what sorts of disputes and complaints she would have to endure.

“Is something wrong?” Gaius asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I’m not looking forward to this part of my duty. I know it’s necessary. The people need to be able to voice their concerns and they need to have someone give them a fair hearing. But it can get tiring very quickly. When you’re a little girl imagining what the king and queen do all day, arbitrating fights over cattle is not something you think of.” 

Gaius chuckled and patted her arm. “The world is rarely what we think it is when we’re children. It’s both a consequence and a benefit of age that you start to see it for what it is. If you’re lucky and wise, you learn to laugh at yourself for your assumptions.” 

“I hope I learn to do that someday,” she said, thinking of Lady Drusilla and her droll observations. It wouldn’t be so bad to be like her when she was fifty or sixty or more.

“I think you already have, my Lady.” Gaius smiled. “I’ve never worried about your sensibility or wisdom. It’s the men in your life I wonder about.”

“Why is that?” 

“You know what Arthur was like when he was younger.” he gave her a meaningful look. “I think he’s grown out of that by now, but he can take things too much to heart and blame himself for things that aren’t his fault. Merlin does the same thing.”

“They’re two sides of the same coin, those two.” Guinevere smiled fondly, thinking back to earlier days when a gawky servant had been paired with an arrogant prince. It was so natural now. Back then, there were days when it seemed like the two of them might bring the walls of Camelot tumbling down, as often as they had clashed. 

“They are. If they remember to listen to each other, they’ll be able to see each other through anything,” Gaius paused, a thoughtful look on his face as he reached for the banister at the top of the stairs. “They’ve already seen each other through some of the worst things life can offer.” 

“Indeed.” Pain and death and tragedy enough for ten lifetimes. It wasn’t fair. 

Gaius sighed and shook his head. “I get maudlin when they’re away. I start to worry too much. Do you need any advice for arbitrating disputes about cattle? I could use the distraction.” 

“Disputes about cattle? No. But if you could help me figure out what to do with Lord Caradoc and his son, and then decide how I feel about that servant, Cerdic-- the one who tried to kill my brother-- I’d be grateful.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you how to feel, My Lady. I can heal bodies, but minds and hearts are beyond my purview,” Gaius said, smiling ruefully. “All I can say is that you need to be as fair with him as you would be with a criminal you’ve never seen before. You have great power. You must use it sparingly.” 

When she looked back on it later, Guinevere had to admit that there had been no warning. No wince of pain to tell her something was wrong, no flutter of foresight telling her to stop. There had only been the sights and sounds of an ordinary day and the gentle smile of an old friend. 

But when Gaius set his foot on the next step down, there was a quiet pop. He hissed in pain and the leg buckled. His hand spasmed on her arm, nearly pulling her down the remaining stairs with him. She caught the banister with a flailing arm and went to one knee, banging it hard against the stone. She ignored the blossoming pain, hitched up her skirts, and half-tumbled down the handful of steps, ignoring the startled shrieks behind her as she dropped to her knees beside Gaius, who lay on his back on the cold stone. 

He groaned, and his eyes fluttered open. “Gwen? What happened?”

Guinevere sucked in a breath and brushed his hair behind his ears. Her fingers came back wet with blood. “You fell down the stairs. Can you tell me what hurts?” She was amazed by the steadiness of her voice. 

Voices rose around them, some alarmed, some calm as they gave orders. Guinevere ignored them all. 

Gaius blinked. His eyes were unfocused for a long time before he finally focused on her. It felt like an age had passed. “My leg. I think it’s broken. And my head…” He raised a shaking hand to his temple. He groaned again and the hand flopped to the floor and his eyes fluttered shut. 

“Gaius?”

A gentle but firm hand on her arm pushed her back. “My Lady, let me see him,” Niniane said, her wide green eyes full of determination. Ah, yes. Niniane was a healer. Guinevere sat back and let the Druid work, watched her steady hands find the old physician’s injuries, saw the eerie golden glow light up her eyes as she worked her magic. Gaius’s eyes finally opened again, clouded with pain but aware. 

“Linnet, fetch Blaise and take him up to Gaius’s chambers. He’ll probably be in the lower town this time of day.” She looked up at the guards around them. “We need to carry him up to his tower, but gently. Very gently. Does someone have a cloak we can put him on? Is there a litter close?”

There was no litter at hand, but someone offered up a red knight’s cloak. Niniane directed the guards on how to lift the old physician first onto the cloak and then up the stairs while keeping a hand on Gaius’s brow. Before they disappeared down the hallway, she called back down. “I’ll tell you what I can as soon as I can, Majesty. Give me time.” 

Guinevere could neither grant her the time nor forbid it to her before they were gone, and even the echoes of their passage faded to nothing. 

“My Lady?” Elayne stood there, blinking owlishly with tears standing in her eyes. 

“Oh, Elayne.” She hadn’t given the girl anything to do in all of this. Linnet had a task, Niniane had a task. Even the guards had a duty to her at the moment. And Elayne, poor silly Elayne who was cleverer than people gave her credit for, was standing there with nothing to do except try not to cry. 

She held her arms out to the girl and wrapped her in an embrace. Comfort. Elayne could provide her comfort, even as Guinevere comforted her. They held each other until they stopped shaking, had controlled their tears, and could stand upright again. 

Elyan was waiting for her, his hands behind his back and his eyes lowered. His long red cloak was gone. Had he given it to the guards to carry Gaius upstairs? “Shall I cancel today’s audiences?” he asked quietly. 

Yes, she wanted to say. They could wait until tomorrow, those people with their cattle disputes and complaints. Her friend had fallen and was injured. He might die before his surrogate son could return to say his good-byes. Now was hardly the time to listen to people’s complaints about errant dogs and unmended fences. But…

“No. I’ll be alright. The people deserve to be heard by their queen. There’s nothing I can do for Gaius right now, anyway. Except wear a hole in the floor from worrying. Niniane will tell us what she can when she can.” Guinevere dried her eyes with her sleeve and squared her shoulders. She squeezed Elayne’s hand one last time and released it. She was a queen now. She had more than herself to think about; her wants were not always more important than those of the people, and right now there was a room full of Camelot’s citizens waiting to hear her judgments. Niniane was attending to her duties. Now it was time for Guinevere to do hers.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


How she managed to keep her focus on the people and their petitions, Guinevere never knew. It took all her energy and by the time she returned to her chambers, she was spent. Linnet and Elayne spent a while fussing over her before they, too, flopped into chairs and they sat together in unsteady silence. Occasionally they would start a conversation, only to have it fade into nothing before more than a few words were spoken. 

Guinevere idly wound and unwound a length of embroidery thread around her fingers until one of Merlin’s stories came to mind. One night not so long ago, when snow-clotted winds had howled like wolves around the castle, rattling the windows in their casements until no one could sleep, she, Arthur, and Merlin had huddled near the fire in their chambers to share stories until they were tired enough to sleep. Of course, Merlin was the one with good tales to tell, and he embellished them with sparks of light or by gathering the shadows and shaping them to fit the tale-- small workings of magic to set the tone, whether it was light and humorous or dark and foreboding.

One of them, he said, was from the people of the Middle Sea. It was the story of the three Fates, goddesses who spun the threads of men’s lives and in so doing determined the length of those lives. When they decided the thread was long enough they cut, thus ending that life with no bargaining and no hope of reprieve. 

She stared at the thread in her hands until her vision blurred. Then she wadded it into a tangled ball and shoved it into the embroidery basket before crossing the room to look out of the window. 

Rumor of Gaius’s fall must have spread across the city; clusters of people had gathered with candles in hand to stand vigil, waiting to see if the old physician lived or died, offering their prayers to aid the other healers in their work. And while it was a smaller crowd than the one that had gathered for Arthur years ago, it showed that Gaius had touched people’s lives for the better. He had cared for them, and they now cared for him. Despite her worry, Guinevere smiled. It was cold and the cobblestones were wet with melting snow, but people had gathered anyway.

“What’s out there?” Linnet asked.

“The people are standing vigil for Gaius.”

Linnet and Elayne joined her at the window, whether out of a desire to see the crowd with their candles or simply to move about, Guinevere neither knew nor cared. They were her friends and they were with her, and though she could not see their faces in the gloom the people in the square below were with her, too, waiting to hear what would happen next. Waiting to hear if Gaius would live or die. 

There came a tapping at the door, a sound so soft Guinevere hardly heard it. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened and Niniane came in. She looked exhausted, her face pale and eyes bloodshot; her long hair hung down her back in an uneven braid and tendrils had escaped to lay limply against her neck. “Majesty,” she said, giving a wavering curtsy. 

“Some wine, Linnet,” Guinevere said as she rushed forward to direct the Druid to a chair, which Niniane gratefully sank into. 

“How is he?” Elayne blurted as she dropped into a chair across the table. “Will he be alright?”

Niniane quickly sipped her wine before setting her cup on the table. Her hands were shaking. “I-” She stopped to clear her throat. “I don’t know. His hip is broken, as is his leg. His skull is intact, but there’s a nasty lump and he split his scalp open. It bled a lot, but scalp wounds always do, and I healed it. There could be other problems, but I think I healed the worst of that. Give me time and I can take care of his broken bones, too....” she trailed off and stared down at her hands.

Guinevere licked her lips and smoothed her bodice. “What else is there?”

“He- It’s his heart. It’s failing, and this fall has made things worse. He’s an old man. He can’t heal quickly like a younger man can. And this problem with his heart is affecting his lungs. I think that’s why he’s been coughing all winter. Maybe Merlin could have healed him, but with everyone else being sick and him having to take care of so many, I don’t think he noticed it. Gaius isn’t one to make a fuss over his problems, not when someone else is suffering. I’ve done what I can, but I’m not as strong as Merlin is. And I’m not sure now that Merlin could save him. Even he can’t heal old age.” 

Her chair was close by, fortunately. Guinevere sank into it with a sudden feeling that the world had gone blank, like her ears had been filled with wax and the sun was shining in her eyes. White and silent. Then she took a breath and she could hear and see again. “You’re sure of this?” It was a foolish question; Niniane wouldn’t have that shattered look on her face if she wasn’t sure of herself. 

She nodded. Tears shone in her eyes. Linnet placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Niniane leaned into it. 

“Who is with him right now?”

“Blaise and Elyan. He was asleep when I left, but I think I should get back to him anyway. You never know what might happen,” Niniane said. 

Guinevere almost smiled. The Druid might see herself as able to keep working her magic, but magical healing wore even Merlin out faster than he would admit to. Niniane would probably fall asleep as soon as she sat down again. There was no shame in that. Guinevere had spent many nights in a chair while watching over Merlin after Blackheath.

“I’ll go with you. Gaius has cared for me many times over the years. It’s only right that I take care of him in return.”


	4. Chapter 4

The stream had overflowed its banks and flooded the low areas surrounding it, turning the forest floor into a squelching morass of roots and rocks that took Merlin all afternoon to lead Altair through. By the time they climbed the hill to dry land and a small shepherd’s hut to shelter in for the night, Merlin’s boots were soaked through and Altair’s hooves were caked with mud. And if the horse didn’t have a bruised hoof from a loose stone, it would be a miracle. 

“What do you think, old friend? Will this be a good enough place for us to stay tonight?” The hut before them was a turf house, partially dug out of the hillside. Its roof was made with grass, not thatch, and even in the failing daylight, Merlin saw the first green shoots peeking over the roof’s edge. There was a heavy wooden door and no windows. The shepherd probably only lived here in the summer, when the nights were short and the sheep spent the long days grazing in the meadows further up the hill. A rough lean-to fashioned from logs and a patchwork of sticks served as a shelter for the sheep. It wasn’t very tall, but here was enough space to suit Altair.

Merlin was content to sleep there, surrounded by the rocks and roots, the bones of the Earth that still lay quietly under winter’s receding mantle. Here, at least, the stillness was expected. He wouldn’t have to stare up at the stars and strain his inner ear to listen for celestial music gone silent, wondering if the gods would keep their faces turned away from him forever. Even this little hut carved into the hillside was enough to remind him that the Earth was the source of his magic, not the gods in their stars. 

The thought felt blasphemous and gave him pause. Then he chuckled at it. He never attended mass but Father Gildas’s moralizing, it seemed, had soaked through anyway. Would the little priest be comforted or scandalized by that? 

“He’d be scandalized, don’t you think?” he asked Altair. The horse looked up at him, ears flicking forward and back before he returned to cropping the new shoots of grass. “I think he’d scandalized. He doesn’t like me much. But he’s a priest. I don’t think he’s supposed to like me. And it’s not as though he’s calling for my head to be chopped off. He glares at me from across the hall, and I ignore him. I think we’re both satisfied to leave it at that.”

Altair huffed and shook his head.

“Don’t give me that. He’s not that bad. He does good things for the people, and he seems to have realized that I’m not going anywhere. If he was too much of a hassle, Arthur would’ve had him replaced. There’s only so much he’s willing to put up with these days.” Merlin watched the horse eat for a few moments, then ducked through the low door and set his bags on the low wooden platform that would serve him as a bed. If anyone saw him carrying on a conversation with a horse they would think he was mad. As though they themselves didn’t speak to animals, furniture, and other things that didn’t talk back. 

“Don’t worry,” he told Altair as he stepped outside again with a horsebrush in hand. “I won’t stop nattering at you. Unless you look me in the eye and start talking back with a human voice. That’s when I’ll know I’ve lost all reason. Now come on. Let me get you cleaned up. You’ll be more comfortable without all this mud on you. And then we can both get some rest.”

The gentle rhythm of grooming Altair’s coat lulled Merlin into a restful state. His hands and mind were busy, and for a little while, he could pretend he had no greater problems than a muddy horse and wet shoes. A pleasant fiction; one that made him feel more at home in himself than he had been for a long time. No aches, no pain, no seething worry underlying every action. It wasn’t often that he found himself in such a state, and once he realized he’d achieved it, it flitted away like a nervous sparrow that suddenly realized it was being watched and once gone, was impossible to find again. 

“I feel a little better. How about you?” Merlin patted Altair’s shoulder, and the horse happily snuffled his hair. “You’re welcome. Now let me check that foot of yours. I'm sure you bruised your foot while we were slogging through all that water. The waterfall was lovely, though. And we got to see Pynell laid low. That was worth it all, wasn’t it? And I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

For three days, he had watched Arthur ride toward the city gates and wait for Lanval’s response, on edge in case someone made an attempt on the king’s life. Arthur’s armor might shine brightly, but one unlucky arrow to the eye was all that was needed to end both his life and the dream of Albion. But it had ended peacefully, with Pynell under arrest and Arthur being welcomed into the city like a hero. It was the ending Merlin had hoped for and never expected to see happen. 

“And he did it all on his own.” Merlin half-grinned as he worked a small stone out of Altair’s hoof. “It’s hard to accuse me of controlling him when I’m not even there, isn’t it? There,” he tossed the stone aside and gently probed the soft part of the horse’s foot. It was warm and irritated. A bruise was forming that, if left unattended, would leave Altair lame for days. 

“I’m sorry, old friend. That must have hurt. Let’s see if I can heal it. You’ll feel better when I’m done, all right?” Merlin said. Altair’s ears flicked back and forward again. He flicked his tail and snorted. “I’ll take that as an agreement.” 

He took the injured hoof in both hands, gently resting his thumbs over the injured spot. Then, with a few whispered words, he let his magic flow into Altair’s foot, felt the damaged tissues mend and the irritation fade away. He shuddered, leaning against Altair’s shoulder as he released the now-healed hoof. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought. Wasn’t all this rest supposed to help?”

A week away from Camelot. Time spent in the forest, with no human in sight. It was supposed to give him a chance to recover his equilibrium, to ease his aching bones and quiet the buzzing in his head. And it had, to a degree. He had let himself sleep and rest; breathed clean air and gathered the first fresh herbs of the season. His ceaseless watch over Arthur had not ended, but he was so accustomed to searching out Arthur’s presence, no matter where either of them was, that it was second nature to him, like looking for his hand and finding it in its usual place at the end of his arm. It took no more effort for him to find Arthur than it did to find his hand. 

Perhaps it was the shock from the unexpected and profound silence of the gods that had greeted him that first night in the woods. It had left him off balance, anxious. Left him unconsciously hunting for the song in the stars, made his dreams restless and his sleep unsatisfying; caused an absence in his spirit that he couldn’t ignore. One that he would keep worrying at like it was a sore tooth. Someday he would find the cure for the pain, or he would learn to live with it. 

Did the priests of the new religion endure silence from their god? He’d never seen them staring up into the heavens or at the images of their saints, head tilted like they were listening for a faraway melody. He should ask Father Gildas what he thought about it. Would the little priest engage him in a spiritual debate, or would he run away as fast as he could?

“You should go home, Merlin. You’re getting strange out here by yourself,” he said aloud. He patted Altair on the shoulder. The horse raised his head, ears flicking around. “I know. You’re probably getting tired of my company. You’d rather be with Canrith and the others. Give me another day to see if I can sort myself out, all right?” 

Altair, as expected, did not answer. Merlin sighed and patted the horse’s shoulder before stepping out of the shelter and into the late evening’s stillness. The light was failing; the first stars peeked through the dark branches above. He paused to watch them, instinctively listening for music that wasn’t there, then shuddered and hurried into the hut. 

He left the door open for some air and made a stack of long flat stones, using a bit of magic to heat them until they glowed red, providing a bit of light, and heat for cooking. His appetite, at least, was returning. He was running out of provisions faster than he’d anticipated, ensuring his return to Arthur’s camp soon.

He was packing his things for the night when an icy chill ran down his spine and a sense of wrongness slid into the back of his mind, as though a cold and slimy hand were caressing the back of his neck.

“You should have closed the door,” a low voice grated. 

Merlin spun. A cloaked man stood in the doorway, an icy glint in his black eyes, set in a gaunt face made cavernous by the shadows. His scarred armor was travel-stained and strangely made, covered with words Merlin couldn’t read and inset with cold iron sigils. In one hand he held an unsheathed sword, and in the other, a carved box wrapped in loops of fine chain. An air of menace lay about him. 

A cold knot of fear formed in Merlin’s gut. He forced himself not to shrink away from the man’s gaze, even as his own slid to the box. It moved, shaken by something within. Merlin did not want to know what it was. “Who are you?” he was amazed by the steadiness of his voice. 

“Does it matter?”

Merlin tore his gaze from the box and looked the man in the eye. He stared back, unfazed by meeting a warlock’s eyes. “What are you, then?”

“I think you know. Who else could track you without you knowing about it?”

He took a steadying breath and squared his shoulders, thinking fast. What sort of man could hide his presence from he, Merlin, who could sense a living being whether it was a horse, a man, or a mouse? What sort of man would know to hide himself in such a way and would carry charms against magic, or would unflinchingly face a sorcerer, blade in hand? “Witchfinder,” he breathed. “I’ve beaten your kind before.”

“Maybe so. And maybe you’ll escape me tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve slipped away from me,” his voice was low and calm, grating like stone against stone.

Merlin frowned. “I’ve never seen you before.”

The man snorted. “You wouldn’t have.”

“What do you want, then?” Merlin licked his lips, afraid he already knew the answer.

“What does a witchfinder do when he finds a witch?” The man shrugged and stepped forward a pace. “I’m meant to kill you. It’s nothing personal.” 

“You could have been a soldier. Found fortune as a mercenary. Instead, you became a witchfinder. You hunt down and murder my kind. Of course it’s personal.” Merlin forced himself to breathe slowly, stay calm, and gather his magic around himself. 

The thing in the box rattled it again. 

“It’s only personal because I believe in the natural order of things. Sorcery isn’t natural, and sorcerers are an aberration. Maybe you made a deal with a demon. Maybe you learned your spells from some ancient book that should have been burned ages ago. However you came by your powers doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that you and your kind can’t be allowed to go on.”

“I was born with my magic. I made no deals for it. I’m no freak.” Merlin spread his fingers, preparing to fling the man out of the door and into the night.

“I’ve seen aberrant animals. Two-headed calves. Sheep born with no eyes. Nature makes mistakes. It’s best to eliminate them before they spread their freakishness. No,” he said sharply, raising the box high, his cold eyes holding Merlin’s like a mouse caught in a snake’s gaze. “Don’t try that. Keep still, and this will be easier on you. I promise to make it quick.”

“What- what is that? In the box?” Merlin’s mouth had gone dry. Cold, sick fear spread through his body. He fought to keep himself from shaking as his eyes were drawn inexorably back to the box. 

“The Gean Canach.” The man raised it higher, giving it a little shake. “Have you heard of it?” He advanced a step. 

“I have.” Merlin couldn’t keep from edging backward, pressing his back against the wall and wishing he could dissolve into the earth. There were only a few paces between them, and the thing in the box shook harder the closer they came to one another. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it back.

“If this box falls, it will break. The Gean Canach will escape, and then it will drain every drop of magic from you. Then I will win, whether I live or die. For what is the Great Pagan without his sorcery?” He advanced another step and raised his sword. It flashed coldly in the pale light. “Don’t make this hard on yourself. All men die.”

For a brief and bitter moment, Merlin considered letting it happen; letting himself bow to the inevitability of death. He’d faced it before and been unafraid. Why did he need to fear it now? It was that or let the Gean Canach do its work and drain him dry of his magic. He had been through that hell before in the dungeons of Blackheath. He would rather die than repeat that experience. He had no sword with which to defend himself. His little knife would do no good. 

Why fight the inevitable?

The sword began its downward arc toward his throat. Outside, far away, Merlin heard a raven’s cry. Something snapped within him. 

Why fight the inevitable? Because the Saxons were coming. Because Arthur was strong, but he could not fight them alone. Because there were people who loved him waiting for him at home.

The sword was halfway through its arc. 

“No!” Merlin cried. He shoved at the man with strength borne of desperation, flinging him backward with the force of his will. Time seemed to slow until the witchfinder’s head struck the door frame. His neck snapped with a sickening crack. He collapsed in a heap, and the box containing the Gean Canach landed beside him, the wood snapping. One of the loops of chain slipped off a corner. 

The box cracked again and rattled. The lid skewed to one side, catching on the rest of the chain. A finger's breadth of space opened up, and in the shadows within the box, Merlin saw something writhing, struggling to escape. If it did, it would latch onto him and... 

“Stop. Please stop,” he breathed, shrinking backward, sliding against the wall until he had pressed himself into a corner. As though that would help. He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat, gathering his magic tightly within himself in the hope that that would keep the Gean Canach from sensing him. Then he edged along the wall farthest from the box. 

He made it two steps before the creature roused itself and shook again, rattling another loop of chain loose. A thin, unearthly screech emanated from the box, the sound scraping down his spine like a rusted nail. He stumbled backward and hit the wall with enough force to bruise. He wrapped his arms around himself and held still until the Gean Canach quieted again.

Then he looked around, cursing his decision to stay here. The hut had seemed so safe and comfortable in the light of day. The single door and the lack of windows had reminded him, oddly, of the crystal cave and the refuge he had once found there. 

Now, though, in the failing light, it was a prison guarded by a corpse and a creature that would drain him of the very thing that made him who he was. The witchfinder was right. What was he without his magic? No one of consequence, just another man of little worth and dubious heritage. Thin and frail and terribly mortal. 

Merlin slid to the floor and drew his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around them as he watched the Gean Canach rattle its box. He tried to calm himself and search for some way out, some magical means that would spirit him out of the room so he could take Altair and flee this awful place, but he couldn’t stop the ringing in his ears or the mad beating of his heart. His breath came in short gasps and his vision blurred. 

The light from the heated stones failed, plunging the room into darkness. 

The Gean Canach rattled in its box and screeched again. 

Merlin pressed his hands to his ears and forced himself to take a deep breath, then another. His head was spinning. It felt like the ground was crumbling under his feet. Slowly, breath by breath and minute by minute, he controlled his breathing until he was certain he wasn’t about to pass out. But the Gean Canach was still there, waiting for him to move or cast a spell. The box was holding together for now, but Merlin dared not provoke it further. Every time it rattled, he heard the chain scrape against the lid or the wood creak dangerously. How much more damage could the box take before it broke and released its prisoner to devour his magic?

He wrapped his arms around his knees, making himself as small as he could, thinking quiet thoughts of earth and stone in the hopes that that would quiet the Gean Canach. But he had no way to pass it and no way to send a message to Arthur. How long would he sit there in the cold darkness before someone found him? How long before he risked passing by the box in an attempt to escape? Eventually the corpse would begin to stink, or the creature’s keening would drive him mad and send him toward the door in a blind panic.

He shuddered. 

Outside, the pale moonlight cast a cold light over the land. The edge of the doorway was limned in silver, assuring Merlin he hadn’t gone blind again. Dark as it was, the night was young. Dawn was hours away. Long, long hours away. He shivered, his fingertips digging into his arms though that brought him no warmth. His hands were as cold as the ground beneath him. 

The Gean Canach keened again.

Merlin screwed his eyes shut and hot tears rolled down his face. “This was a mistake,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have left. Someone, please find me. Please…”

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


It was too early and too cold, Gwaine decided as he pulled his gloves on and squinted up through the treetops to the clouds building up in the sky. “Do you suppose it’s going to snow? That’d be all we need.”

“I don’t know.” Lancelot briefly glanced upward, then went back to securing their things on the packhorse’s back. “It won’t help if it does. Where do you think we should start?”

Gwaine looked at the soft ground, searching for more of the signs they had seen yesterday before the oncoming nightfall had forced them to take shelter. He found the hoofprints he’d marked before dark last night and followed their progression in the soft earth until they reached a patch of rock. “Our horse went this way,” he told Lancelot. “The stream’s over there. Down the hill, I think. I can hear a waterfall.”

“The top of the hill looks out over the fields below the city,” Lancelot said. “Do you think he saw the goings-on yesterday?”

“I think he could have watched that from anywhere in the world if he wanted to,” Gwaine said absently, searching the ground around the rocks for more hoofprints, footprints, threads caught in bushes, or any other sign of Merlin’s passing. 

They had heard the bells ringing yesterday and paused their search for Merlin long enough to find out what was going on. It had been hard to tell who was who from across the wide fields, but even from their vantage point in the forest above Venta Belgarum, they could see the dragon banner of Camelot standing tall and hear the raucous shouts of the men in the camp. The figure being marched back to the city under guard must have been Pynell. That thorn in their side had finally been yanked out. Gwaine wished he could have seen it up close.

“Aha!” He cried. “I found more tracks.”

“A horse?”

“Yeah. And some boot prints on top of them. Heading right for that stream. Let’s go.” He grabbed his horse’s reins and led the beast onward, with Lancelot and the other two horses behind him. The tracks were clear as daylight, thanks to the lack of undergrowth. If it were later on into Spring, the new grasses wouldn’t have shown the tracks so well. As it was, the ground was just soft enough for Gwaine to make out the size of the hoofprints and, in one instance, the blacksmith’s mark: the royal mark of Camelot. If these weren’t Altair’s prints, then Gwaine would eat his saddle pack. Not even Leon had a horse with the royal marks. He grinned. “It’s Merlin. And we’re not that far behind him.”

Lancelot’s grin mirrored the relief that must have been on Gwaine’s own face. “Looks like we’ll find him today, then.”

“Unless it rains.” 

“Don’t go asking for trouble.”

“Then you’d better send some prayers up that those aren’t rainclouds. The last place I want to be is out here in a storm.” 

“Quit jabbering, then, and get back to looking,” Lancelot said. 

“You-” Gwaine glared at him, then rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the ground. After another minute of searching, he found another print. A boot print this time, though it was broader and heavier than Merlin’s would have been. Had a farmer or shepherd left Venta Belgarum and gone home? He considered it for a moment, then shrugged. One bootprint wasn’t enough to tell him who was up there with them, and he would only waste time trying to figure it out. He moved on, searching for more prints, sometimes with his nose a few inches from the ground.

The sound of the waterfall drew him on. The tracks were leading there, and even a sorcerer needed to drink. Whenever they had traveled together before, Merlin had always paused by waterfalls, no matter how small or unspectacular they were. The sound of the rushing water seemed to give him peace, even if they only had a few moments to spare. 

“Do you suppose he’s sorted out whatever was going on in his head?” Gwaine asked.

Lancelot shrugged. “Maybe. The forest gives him peace. And a few days away from everyone couldn’t hurt. He’s been awfully worn out lately.”

“I know. It feels a little unfair of us to be tracking him down like this. Of anyone I know, Merlin’s the best suited to living in the woods. He could use the time away.” Especially with Pynell’s accusations hanging about. It might be better for Merlin if he could take even more time away from Camelot and wait for the court’s rumor mill to settle on someone else’s troubles. The wagging tongues might fall silent when the sorcerer entered the room, but even a deaf man would know who they’d been talking about moments before, and who they would be talking about as soon as he left. Gwaine shook his head and stepped off a low rock ledge. “Ugh!”

“What is it?” Lancelot asked, his hand on his sword hilt.

“Nothing. I think the stream’s flooded.” He pulled his boot out of the muck he’d stepped into, wincing at the sucking sound it made. “Maybe Merlin went out to the waterfall, but I don’t think we should go. He can’t have camped in a flood, anyway.”

“No. I don’t think he’s that anxious to get away from it all. Let’s follow the hill up and see what we find. He wouldn’t have crossed the stream when it’s like this. Not with Altair.”

Gwaine nodded and tugged at his horse, Gringalet’s lead. Merlin loved Altair and wouldn’t willingly part with him. Nor would the horse leave him unless it was forced to. The sorcerer had a strange effect on animals; the ones that spent any length of time with him grew wiser than their brethren and seemed to sense things that were lost on other creatures-- or men. 

A breeze began to blow. Dead leaves rattled in the branches, and high above the sky grew darker as the clouds gathered. “Where are you, Merlin?” Gwaine muttered under his breath as he shivered. “If I find out you’ve gotten into trouble again…” His gut tightened as he unwillingly pondered all the dangers Merlin could have found out here; he could have drowned in treacherous waters, slipped on a wet stone and cracked his skull, taken a fall off Altair and broken his neck, been stabbed in the back in a misunderstanding with a shepherd. 

Morgana could have shown up while he was alone and done God only knew what to him.

Gwaine picked up his pace until he was almost running up the hill. 

“What is it?” Lancelot called from behind him, struggling with the two horses behind him.

“I don’t know. I just- I have a feeling. I don’t know.” He stopped on a level part of the hill, scanning the ground for any signs of tracks. He spotted one near a low-hanging branch, though it wasn’t a hoofprint. It was the same broad boot print that he’d seen before, still too wide and heavy to be Merlin’s. “That’s the second time I’ve seen that print,” he said, pointing it out to Lancelot. 

“You’re sure it’s not Merlin’s?”

“I’m sure. Merlin might be as tall as Arthur, but he’s so bird-boned his footprints hardly show up at all. Might be the magic doing that,” Gwaine said, biting his lip as he searched around for any other signs. Gringalet snorted, his head rising sharply and nearly pulling the reins out of Gwaine’s hand. His ears flicked around, and he let out an ear-splitting whinny. “What the hell?”

Before either of them could say anything, an answering whinny came to them out of the trees farther up the hill. 

“Was that-?”

“Altair? Maybe?”

Without another word, they dashed forward, the horses trotting along beside them, ears up and heads held high like they were anticipating a meeting with a long-lost friend. That was enough for Gwaine. He grinned and let Gringalet take the lead, his smile broadening when the forest opened up to a narrow clearing with a run-down shepherd’s hut dug into the hillside. Its wooden door was slightly ajar. Beside the hut stood an aging lean-to that looked like it sheltered sheep. Altair poked his nose around the corner, ears perking up at the sight of the other horses. 

“Hey there. Where’s your man? Is he still asleep?” Gwaine rubbed Altair’s nose and glanced around. He’d have thought Merlin would be up by now or at least roused by Altair’s racket, but there was no noise from the hut or anywhere else. 

“Look,” Lancelot reached out and grabbed a loop of rope wound around Altair’s head and pulled tight behind his ears. The other end was tied to a beam of the lean-to, the length of it barely long enough to allow the horse to touch his nose to the ground to nip at the grass. “Merlin wouldn’t do this. He doesn’t even put Altair on a picket line when we’re in camp. He just expects him to be there the next morning.” 

“Of course he’d be there the next morning. This horse would follow Merlin into the castle if he could,” Gwaine said. He undid the knot and pulled the rope off Altair’s head, checking the horse’s neck for chafing or other injury. Altair responded by shaking his head and snorting. “So if Merlin didn’t do this, who did? And why didn’t he take the rope off?”

Gwaine glanced around the clearing, half-fearing to see the sorcerer lying dead at the edges of it. “Merlin?” he called. “Are you here?”

No one replied, but a strange rattling noise came from the hut. Gwaine drew his sword and stalked toward the door. Lancelot followed a few steps behind him. A hand lay in the doorway, pale and rigid with death. It was impossible to tell if it was Merlin’s hand or someone else’s. He swallowed hard and pushed on the door. “Merlin? You in there?”

He used all his weight against the door to move the corpse aside. It had dark reddish hair-- not Merlin’s, thank God. “Merlin?” He looked inside, squinting against the interior darkness to make out the shadowy shapes within. 

Merlin was huddled in a corner, tightly folded in on himself. His gaze was fixed on a wooden box in the middle of the floor, which rattled and made an eerie keening sound. The sorcerer flinched away from it. “Merlin? What is that? Are you alright?” Gwaine stepped around the corpse and reached for the box’s lid, which was held in place by a single loop of chain. 

“No, don’t!” Merlin shouted, scrabbling backward against the wall as though he could shove himself into it. 

Gwaine jerked his hand back. “What is it?” 

“Take it away. Take it far away from me and burn it. Don’t let it touch me!” Merlin’s voice was rough, his eyes still locked on the box. 

“All right. I’ll get rid of it,” Gwaine said gently, slowly sheathing his sword and reaching for the box. He closed his hands over the lid, making sure whatever creature was in there couldn’t get out. Merlin gasped when he picked it up. But while the creature keened again, Gwaine unflinchingly turned away, carefully stepped back over the body in the doorway, and took the box outside. 

“What is that?” Lancelot asked.

“I have no idea, but it scares the hell out of Merlin,” Gwaine said. “Keep an eye on him, will you? I’m going to take it down the hillside and kill it.” The other knight nodded and headed for the hut while Gwaine, one-handed, pulled a bag off the packhorse and hurried down the hill. There were plenty of rocky platforms where he could light a fire, though where he’d find the kindling to start one, he didn’t know. It hadn’t begun raining yet, but with the skies as dark as they were, it could start at any time. But Merlin had asked him to kill the thing in the box, so kill it he would. 

And then they would get the whole story of the previous night out of him.

In the end, it was easier to light the box on fire than he thought it would be. He found some dried leaves and sticks in a hollow log, looped the chain around the box and nestled it within the kindling, then set flint and steel to it. A few strikes later, and the leaves caught fire, quickly lighting up the twigs, and then the box. 

Gwaine stepped back a few paces to watch, and while he felt ridiculous doing it, he drew his sword again. Whatever the creature was, it had frightened Merlin, and so it frightened Gwaine, and neither would be satisfied until it was a hunk of blackened ash on the forest floor. 

As the smoke began rising from the box, the thing within it started keening again, struggling so violently it rattled itself off the rocks and split the wood apart. An ugly slug-like creature emerged, its gray-green skin singed and smoking as it plopped onto the ground with a wet thud. Gwaine stepped back in revulsion, then jumped to take action when it made an awkward leap up the hill. Small as it was, the creature’s movements were easy to predict-- straight as an arrow back toward Merlin. He skewered it like a hunk of meat, and it struggled for a few moments until it went still, a stinking green goo running down the blade. 

Gwaine jammed the sword into the mud and rebuilt the fire. Not just dead, but burned, Merlin had said. The box’s remains were smoldering. He gathered more leaves from the hollow log and rebuilt the fire, holding the skewered creature over the flames. 

Its skin caught, crackling wetly as it curled and peeled away from the creature’s slimy innards. Then they, too, began to burn, releasing a foul stench like rotten eggs and old blood. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, holding the burning creature as far from himself as he could until the last meaty bits fell away, revealing a blade that looked like it had been scored with acid. 

“Well, Merlin. It looks like you finally found a beastie you couldn’t make friends with,” he muttered, shuddering as he stamped out the little fire and used a heavy stick to break up the clumps of ash and charred flesh, hoping it couldn’t remake itself out of the little bits of goo that were left. He waited for a few minutes, staring down at the remnants, half-expecting them to start wriggling and crawling together. Then he sheathed his sword and stalked up the hill. 

Back at the hut, Lancelot had untangled the rope from Altair’s legs and saddled him. The horse stood with the others, docile and half-asleep as Lancelot secured Merlin’s bags on his back. The sorcerer also looked to be half-asleep where he leaned against a tree, wrapped in both his gray cloak and Lancelot’s red cloak. His face was white and drawn.

“Is he all right?” Gwaine asked.

“Merlin or the horse?”

“Both?”

Lancelot shrugged. “Altair is fine. The rope didn’t hurt him. I walked him around the clearing a few times so he could stretch.” He glanced at the sorcerer and lowered his voice. “Merlin’s freezing. And he hasn’t said a word. What was in that box?”

“I don’t know. It looked like some giant, nasty slug. He must have been staring at it all night. I wouldn’t want to talk about it, either. Any idea who the corpse was?”

“No. He didn’t look like he was from around here, but he’s been dead a while. I dragged him out of the hut and left him in the woods. He was stiff as a board. There were Breton prayers written all over his armor.”

“Breton? Aren’t you from Brittany?”

“Yes,” Lancelot nodded. “But you can’t blame me for that.”

Gwaine smirked. “I wasn’t going to. What were the prayers about?”

“They were prayers against evil.” Lancelot glanced over his shoulder and into the forest, as though he expected something to come trundling out of the woods.

“What kind of evil?” A chill settled in Gwaine’s gut.

“All kinds.”

“What sort of man wears armor covered in prayers against evil and carries around boxes with weird giant slugs that frighten sorcerers?” Gwaine mused, glancing over at Merlin, who stared up at the sky, head tilted like he was listening for something far away. He clutched at Lancelot’s cloak, and even from this distance he could see the sorcerer’s hand shaking. Gwaine’s jaw clenched. “Whoever he was, he deserved what he got. Did you bury him?”

“With what shovel?” Lancelot raised an eyebrow, gesturing at their packs. “I shoved him under a ledge and pushed some soil and rocks over him, but unless you want to spend all day raising a cairn for him, we’ll have to leave him out there.”

“Let the animals have him.” He spat at the unnamed stranger’s memory, then walked over the Merlin. “You alright, mate?” 

Merlin’s eyes were still fixed on the sky, his expression contemplative. He blinked slowly, gaze sliding down to meet Gwaine’s. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice faint and scratchy. “Let’s go.” He slipped past Gwaine, letting the red cloak slide from his shoulders and catching it with one hand. He wordlessly handed it back to Lancelot and pulled his hood up as the first raindrops fell. 

The knights shared a disgruntled look, then Lancelot shrugged again as if to say, ‘What can you do?’ And really, what could they do? Merlin was not required to answer them, and if they tried to push the point he had the means to slip away from them, to vanish at will and reappear equally at will. They might want answers to the myriad riddles of the hut in the clearing, but he did not have to provide any. And they would have to live with that. 

With a sigh, Gwaine climbed into the saddle and nudged Gringalet forward. With a last glance back at the little hut and its mysteries, he pulled his hood up against the rain and kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead all the way to Venta Belgarum.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Arthur leaned against the windowsill and watched the rain. The view was not as grand as the one from his window in Camelot. Here, there was only a garden partly buried in dirty snow with the tops of barren trees peeking over the gray stones of a low wall. If not for the rain, he might have seen the church’s bell tower rising high above the other buildings in the lower part of town, but it had disappeared into the mist, leaving the sky a dull, leaden gray. The air, at least, smelled of freshly-stirred earth and new growth. Soon, the garden would be full of blooming flowers and pungent herbs, and even the old stone wall would look cheerful among the blossoms and butterflies they would attract. He almost wished he could see it, but he would be long gone by then. Provided the rain was not too heavy, he and the army would leave for Camelot tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that. 

And then would come Pynell’s trial.

Arthur bowed his head and sighed. There could only be one outcome for that: guilty. Not because he wanted to be rid of a troublesome lord, but because the testimonies against him were so damning. Caradoc had been Uther’s man, through and through, yet his word had brought Arthur here. Lanval had been cozy with Pynell for days, listened to the man’s tales and counsel, and then turned on him. Neither had had a reason to disbelieve their old acquaintance’s stories of Arthur having been under Merlin’s spell. Pynell had promised a return to their glory days, times that greying men might have leaped at the chance to relive, save that they loved their children and hoped they might live their last days in peace. 

So Pynell was guilty of attempting to incite a rebellion against his king, and the only punishment for that was death. 

How would it feel to pass such a sentence? To preside over the execution, knowing that it was his judgment that sent Pynell to the headsman’s block? What would he tell the man’s son?

The thought of it all turned his stomach. 

The knock at the door was a welcome distraction. “Come in.”

Lancelot’s face was an even more welcome sight. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, not at all. Did you find Merlin?” Arthur waved him in and sat, hoping he wasn’t anticipating bad news.

“We found him this morning. Argued with the castle guards until Leon came and vouched for us. Took a bit to find a room, then we had the servants draw a hot bath for Merlin. He ran into some kind of trouble last night. He’s been freezing since we found him.” Lancelot said, scowling. 

Arthur straightened. “What happened? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine, as far as we could tell. Hasn’t said a word about it,” Lancelot said. “He spent the night sitting up in a hut in the hills. There was a dead man in the doorway and a box with some sort of creature in it. Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him. The dead man was a Breton with prayers against evil written on his armor. He wasn’t anyone I recognized.”

“A dead Breton and a creature in a box,” Arthur mused. “How does trouble find him so readily?”

“I think this trouble searched him out. I can’t imagine that he’d just happen across someone carrying a creature that would frighten Merlin like that,” Lancelot said.

“I’ll speak with him. See if he can tell me who the Breton was or what that creature was,” Arthur said. He wiped a hand over his face to smooth away his scowl. “Will he be ready to talk to me, or should I give him some time?” 

A smile touched Lancelot’s lips. “I think he’ll be willing to talk to you anytime, but he’s probably out of the bath by now. It took me a while to get myself cleaned up. The road was awful in the rain. I had mud in my ears.” He made a sour face. Arthur smirked and tried to picture the handsome and fastidious knight covered in mud. The ladies wouldn’t look twice at him like that. 

“Then let’s go see if he’ll tell me what happened last night.”

Merlin’s room was on the opposite side of the keep from Arthur’s, down a gloomy hallway with narrow windows and a handful of candles set in sconces. For all that, it was wide enough to be comfortable; the sort of place Lanval might give to guests of lower status who weren’t so low that they would have to find their accommodation in the town. Halfway down the hall, Gwaine leaned against a wall, his arms loosely folded. He looked half asleep but perked up when Arthur cleared his throat. 

“He’s in here?” Arthur asked, gesturing at the partly-open door.

“Yeah. A healer’s in there with him.”

“Why?” Arthur asked sharply.

Gwaine shrugged, unconcerned. “His back.”

“Oh.” He relaxed and tapped on the door. An unfamiliar voice bid him to enter. The room was of a good size and comfortable if spartan in its furnishings. A changing screen stood to one side with the end of a wooden tub peeking out behind it. There was a pair of chairs and a small writing desk, and against the far wall was bed wide enough for two, assuming they were familiar with each other. 

Merlin sat backward in one of the chairs, his cheek resting against the backrest, elbows resting on his knees. He was awake. Arthur could see that much. But he didn’t acknowledge the king’s presence. 

“Everything alright?” he asked the healer, a stocky man with graying hair and a placid expression. 

The healer nodded. “He had a salve for these scars, but he’s fine otherwise. A bit tired, perhaps.”

Arthur nodded and hooked the second chair with his foot, dragging it over and sitting down a couple of paces from Merlin. He would have dismissed the healer and applied the salve himself, but he hadn’t missed the man’s sidelong glance when he entered. Lanval wasn’t the only man who had heard Pynell’s stories. He sighed inwardly and settled back in the chair, arms folded and legs crossed at the ankle. 

The healer seemed unfazed by the presence of the king, for he didn’t hurry his work, and it was a quiet few minutes until he finished. Arthur reached over and snagged Merlin’s pack, pulling out the first shirt he could find. Gray, made with the softest linen Guinevere could find. He handed it over as the healer packed his things, gave them another sidelong look, and hurried out the door, leaving it half-open behind him. 

“Merlin?” The sorcerer hadn’t taken the shirt yet. He didn’t seem to notice that Arthur was there until he tapped the rungs of the chair. “You awake?”

Merlin blinked owlishly and sat up straight. “Yeah,” he murmured as he pulled the shirt on and tugged it straight. “Just thinking.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Arthur said lightly.

A pause, then, “No.”

Arthur sat back as if he’d been struck. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

Merlin made a non-committal noise. “You got what you came here for. Or who you came for.”

A wry smile tugged at Arthur’s lips before fading. “Saw that, did you? Yes, Lanval turned on him. Maybe he never intended to side with Pynell. Maybe he saw the army and got cold feet. I don’t know. But Pynell is under arrest and Lanval has been doing his best to prove his loyalty. We're going back to Camelot tomorrow or the day after. It depends on the rain.” 

“That’ll end tonight.”

“Good to know,” Arthur said, forcing an unconvincing smile onto his face. He looked away, sighing, then leaned forward to look Merlin in the eye. “What happened out there? Lancelot told me about the dead man. Do you know who he was or what he wanted?”

Merlin straightened and rubbed his eyes, then rummaged through a little bag at his side. He drew out a length of thin cloth and began to slowly wrap it around his wrist. His mind wasn’t on the task, though. He had to unwind it and start again twice. 

“Let me do that,” Arthur said gently, taking the cloth and Merlin’s hand, ignoring the coolness of the sorcerer’s fingertips as he secured the end and started wrapping it around his scarred wrists. 

Merlin watched him work for a moment. “He was a witchfinder. He managed to get into the hut behind me. I didn’t even know he was there until he spoke. He must have had some charm or something to hide his presence.”

“A witchfinder would use magic to hunt down sorcerers?” 

“Aredian did. This one, though, he said that if I got away, it wouldn’t be the first time. I said I’d never seen him before. He said I wouldn’t have. I can’t think of when that might have been,” Merlin’s voice was soft, distant. As though his mind was elsewhere.

Arthur frowned and tucked in the end of the wrap and motioned for Merlin to give him his other hand. “There was that night last summer, before my wedding, when someone shot at you with a crossbow. We never found out who did it. That could have been your witchfinder.”

“Could have been,” Merlin agreed faintly. 

“What else was there? Lancelot said there was some sort of creature?” 

Merlin’s eyes closed and he shuddered. “That-” he rasped, then licked his lips. “The Gean Canach. A creature of ancient times. It was thought they were all gone, the last ones destroyed during the Purge. There must have been one left.” His voice was rough, as though he had been screaming for hours. 

“What would it have done to you?”

Merlin’s fingers clenched under Arthur’s, pulling the cloth from the king’s hand. He gathered up the trailing end and gently steadied Merlin’s hand so he could finish wrapping his wrist.

“The Gean Canach drained sorcerers of their magic. Permanently. If it had attacked me…” he trailed off, his voice shaking. 

Arthur looked up at him in alarm. “It didn’t touch you, did it?”

“No. It couldn’t get out of its box. But the box was damaged when the witchfinder dropped it after… after I killed him. He would have killed me if he could’ve.”

“I know,” Arthur assured him. 

“The box was cracked and the chains around it were loose. It could sense that I was there, and it was doing everything it could to get to me. I tried to use my magic to seal the box, but that enraged it. It almost broke out. I had to pull back on my magic, pull it within myself. That calmed it a little, but it still knew I was there. If I moved, it would react. When the light went out I could still-- I could still hear it, screeching at me through the night.” When he turned away, Arthur caught the glint of moisture in his eyes.

“It’s over now. It’s dead.” 

“I know. I’ve been telling myself that all day. It turns out that I’m not very convincing.” Merlin tilted his head, his eyes fixed on nothing. “It makes me wonder why you ever listen to me.”

“Because you’re so often right. It’s hard to ignore a man who’s right nine times in ten.” He forced an unconvincing smile onto his face and lightened his voice. “I don’t suppose, in your little sojourn in the woods, that you had a vision of what’s to come?” It was an awful attempt at changing the subject, to prompt that crease on Merlin’s brow that showed up whenever he was irritated. 

“No.” Merlin’s face remained expressionless.

Arthur sighed. “I know. These things don’t come to you when you call for them.”

The expression that stretched Merlin’s lips was not a smile. It was grim and despairing, like the grins of sun-bleached skulls. “They never will again. The gods have turned their faces away from me.”

He went cold. “What do you mean? I thought, well. I thought you were favored by your gods. Why-?” 

Merlin’s laugh was bitter, unsettling. A sound that should not have gone along with sane words. “I refused to pay homage to the Goddess. After all She’s done to me, She expected me to fall to my knees and bow to Her like one of your monks would do before your god.” His voice was barely loud enough to reach Arthur’s ears, and yet they felt like they would carry all the way to heaven. 

“You’re--” Arthur closed his mouth against the next word he would have said. ‘You’re frightening me, Merlin,’ was the truth, but there were times when the truth was the wrong thing to say. “You’re sure of that?”

“As sure as I am of anything. I have heard music in the stars all my life, and now it’s gone. The only thing I hear now is buzzing. Like bees. Or a forest’s worth of birds all flying away at once. Thought and memory…” His perfect stillness was stranger, more unsettling than any agitated pacing or raving. “It only goes away at night, and then there’s nothing but this awful silence waiting for me. It’s like being blind again.” His eyes slid shut. 

Arthur reached for his shoulder, almost touched it, then let his hand drop. “You should try to sleep. You’re exhausted.” 

“I feel like I could sleep for years.” Merlin moved finally, running a hand over his eyes. 

He smiled despite himself. “You can’t sleep that long, but feel free to sleep past sunrise. Even if it’s dry enough to leave in the morning, it will take a while to decamp. I’ll have some food sent up for you.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat it anyway. Your king commands it.”

That gave Arthur the genuine, albeit faint, smile he’d been looking for. “Then I must obey,” Merlin said, rising slowly. 

Arthur put a hand under his elbow and directed him toward the bed. The sorcerer practically fell into it, curling up on his side, eyes already closing. “Sleep well.” He pulled the coverlet over Merlin and touched a hand to his forehead. No fever that he could feel, no hitch in his breathing, no sign of sickness. Perhaps a night’s sleep, a good meal, and the promise of a return to the familiar surroundings of Camelot would be enough to set Merlin’s unsettled mind at ease. 

He turned and left the room, gently closing the door behind himself. 

“How is he?” Lancelot asked. 

“Unsettled. Exhausted. He’s asleep now. Lancelot, stay with him. Gwaine, come with me.”

Gwaine straightened, eyes flashing with anger before he suppressed it. “Where are we going?”

“To have a little chat with a certain prisoner. That creature was something that would have drained Merlin of his magic if it had touched him, and your dead man was a witchfinder. I think he was the one who tried to murder Merlin last summer, and I think I know who hired him. I want confirmation of it.” Arthur strode down the hall, grabbing the arm of the first page he saw. “Send word ahead that I wish to speak with Lord Pynell. Sir Lanval will forgive my use of his hall for this audience.”

“Yessir, your majesty,” the page said breathlessly before running back in the direction he’d come from. 

“Our prisoner has more crimes to atone for?” Gwaine asked.

“I suspect so. And if he did, he will pay for it.” 

“How will you manage that? You can only chop off his head once.”

“Then he’ll spend his last few days knowing that all his plotting and scheming came to nothing,” Arthur said, keeping his voice low but allowing his anger to seep into it. If he raged now, he might keep his temper when he faced Pynell at last. “And he will know that his son will grow up in my court where he’ll learn to not persecute others for being different. I’ve grown tired of all these people trying to kill Merlin because of his magic. If I can learn to accept it, the rest of the kingdom can, too. How many times does he have to prove his goodwill before people stop believing he’s evil? How many times does he have to save me, or save Camelot itself? Hordes of Saxons could be descending on us this summer, and all some men can worry about is who Merlin prays to.”

Gwaine wisely said nothing. 

An hour later Arthur was seated in Lanval’s audience chamber, dressed in the finest clothes he’d brought with him, flanked by Leon on his right and Bedivere on his left and a handful of other knights- Gwaine and Percival among them. Gareth was there, too. The boy needed to learn how to deal with treacherous lords in case he was one day cursed with disloyalty in his ranks. For Gareth’s sake, he hoped that never came to pass. But the course of the future never ran straight, and Hywel was not an old man. If he didn’t fall in battle in the next few years, he might rule for a long time. And then Gareth would have the same kind of old-guard Arthur was dealing with now. 

He sat back in the chair, an ugly and uncomfortable thing that gave out a feeling of solidity, if not majesty. He tapped the armrest, willing the rest of himself to stillness as his restlessness grew, every passing minute making him want to leap up, walk down to the dungeons, and drag Pynell up here himself.

Just when he thought his idle energy would spill over into action, there was a pounding on the door. A guard came in, one of Lanval’s castle guards, unused to addressing lords or kings. His voice shook. “Your majesty. The prisoner, as you ordered.”

“Bring him in,” Arthur said coolly, straightening and raising his chin ever so slightly. 

The door groaned as it opened. Two guards escorted Pynell in, their hands tight on his arms as though he didn’t have heavy shackles on his wrists and might make a dash for freedom. He knelt of his own accord, his expression as cool and composed as Arthur’s, as though they were preparing to discuss the weather or some other banality. “Your majesty,” he said.

“Lord Pynell,” Arthur said, acknowledging the man and the title that would be stripped from him. “You stand accused of treason. Two men have already given evidence against you. They risked their lives to do so, thus I have no reason to doubt their word. They say you planned to raise an army against me, that you would have marched upon the city of Camelot and waged war against your anointed king. That, even in the face of the Saxon threat, you would have this land wage war against itself for… what? I fail to understand your motives.”

Pynell’s jaw worked like he was chewing on his words and deciding which ones to spit out. “I would have no reason to oppose you, Majesty, if not for the sorcerer that dogs your steps. How do you know he is not controlling you with some evil-minded spell? How do you know he hasn’t been controlling you since he arrived in Camelot? Sorcery is a slippery, subtle thing. I’ve seen it strip men of their reason and force them to do unspeakable things, and every time it happened, they thought they were acting of their own free will. Can you say for certain Merlin hasn’t done the same to you?”

“You make a valid point,” Arthur conceded. “But let me remind you of a banquet my father held, several years ago. I remember you being there. I remember almost everything about that night because it was one of the first assassination attempts against me. There was a cup of poisoned wine meant for me. Somehow, Merlin knew of it. And though he’d only been my servant for a few weeks, when he was forced to prove his suspicions, he drank the poisoned wine. If an antidote hadn’t been found in time, he would have died a painful death. So tell me, Pynell, is that the act of a man who has my death in mind? Is that the act of a man who would have me be a slave to his will?”

Pynell’s glare was sullen and silent, but finally, he dropped his eyes, his shoulders sagging when he could not find a way to refute Arthur’s questions. 

“I could spend all day and all night providing examples of Merlin’s loyalty to Camelot. Times where he has risked his own life to protect me, or even my father, who would have had Merlin executed if he’d known he was a sorcerer. And even after I exiled him for having magic, he was loyal. He could have joined Morgana, and together they could have brought Camelot to its knees. But he waited until I had a chance to rethink my actions, and when I asked him to return, he was willing to serve me once more. In all the years he has been here, he has asked for nothing, save that I extend to his people the same justice I would give to any other citizen of Camelot.

“The same cannot be said for you, my lord.” Arthur couldn’t help the note of contempt in the final two words. “Since I was crowned, you have done your best to obstruct progress, simply because it’s not the way we have always done it. But times must change. Camelot faces a greater threat than it ever has before, and if we do not meet it as one, united people, we will fall. I have given you chances-- more than you deserved-- to be loyal, and you have repaid them with the threat of war. For this, you will pay with your life.”

“It is our faith that will see us through this, Majesty. Not reliance upon the sorcerous ways of the old gods.” Pynell’s back straightened, and he raised his eyes to meet Arthur’s. Defiant to the last.

Arthur sighed. “I will stand with all of my people, not just with the ones who believe as I do. And if Camelot falls, it will not be because we were divided.” 

Pynell’s mouth twisted. “I am glad I will not live to see this kingdom fall.”

The old wood resisted Arthur’s attempts to gouge chunks out of it with his fingernails. “We agree on that, my lord,” he grated, then took a steadying breath. “I have heard that Merlin killed a witchfinder last night. The man would have murdered him if he hadn’t acted, and by his account, this wasn’t the first time the witchfinder made an attempt on his life. Last summer, a man shot at Merlin while I stood next to him. If he had misjudged his aim, he might have killed me. Something tells me this man did not show up in Camelot on a whim. So tell me. Did you hire this man to kill a loyal citizen of Camelot? Tell me the truth, for I will surely know if you are lying.”

“I-” Pynell swallowed, his eyes darting about as though he were searching for someone-- Merlin, perhaps-- who would look into his soul and pluck the truth from him like a ripe apple from a tree. He looked old, suddenly, the lines in his face deepening, the gray in his hair seeming to bleach to white in a moment. “I hired the witchfinder. A Breton man who promised to put an end to sorcery in Camelot. Had he succeeded, we would not be here now. We would be ready to face the Saxons.”

“No, we would not,” Arthur said. “Camelot would lie in ashes. There would be no place for the people to fall back to if the outer defenses failed. There would be nowhere for the knights to train, no supplies to see the army or the people through the winter. Without Merlin, the city of Camelot would have burned to the ground and we would all be at the mercy of the Saxons.”

The color bled from Pynell’s face. “Then… in this instance, we were fortunate.”

Arthur studied him for a long moment. He seemed to have shrunk in on himself and lowered his gaze with real humility. “Is there something else you wish to confess?”

Pynell took a breath, then licked his lips. “No, sire,” he rasped. “There is not.”

Time passed. The silence stretched long as Arthur waited, wondering if he would relent and speak his mind. But Pynell maintained his silence, still ghastly white. Keeping his greatest sins to himself and to God. “Very well, then. Take him back to his cell. Merlin said the rain will end tonight. We will leave for Camelot tomorrow.”

He kept his back straight until the guards led Pynell out and the doors closed behind them, then sagged into the chair’s embrace. “Leon,” he said, beckoning the knight close, “what do you think of his reaction to my mentioning the fire? Do you think it was strange?”

“It was,” Leon agreed. “But he was at Tintagel when that happened.”

“His hired man wasn’t, though. He could have been anywhere.”

“He could have been. But most believe the fire was an accident.”

“I know,” Arthur said. “He makes me wonder, though. Make a record of everything he’s said since yesterday, and from now until…”. Until his execution. “If he says anything about the fire, I want to know it.”

“Of course. Though I doubt he’ll say anything at all,” Leon said.

“No, he probably won’t. But if he does-”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Leon said. “How’s Merlin?”

“Asleep. Uninjured.” Unsettled. And unsettling. “A witchfinder tried to kill him last night. He failed.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Arthur gave him a faint smile. “He says the rain will stop tonight. Go out to the camp and tell the men to prepare to leave in the morning. I want to return to Camelot as soon as possible. Now that the end of all this is in sight, I want to get it over with as quickly as we can.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Lancelot was not waiting in the hall outside of Merlin’s room when Gwaine returned. He slowed his steps and gently pushed the door open, reaching for the hilt of a blade that wasn’t there and silently cursing when his fingers closed on air. 

But there proved to be no need for worry. Lancelot was inside, folding clothes and tucking them into Merlin’s bag while the sorcerer slept. Gwaine rapped on the door with a knuckle to announce his presence before stepping in and closing it behind him. “How is he?”

“He’s been asleep this whole time,” Lancelot shrugged. “I thought about waking him when a servant brought a tray up, but he looked too peaceful. It’s over there. It’ll keep.” 

“Packing for him?” Gwaine asked, nodding toward the folded clothes stacked on the little desk.

“One less thing for him to do in the morning. I don’t have anything else to do,” Lancelot said. “How did it go with Pynell? Did he hire the Breton?”

Gwaine plopped into one of the chairs and tilted it back on two legs. “He did. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it, either. Said he wouldn’t have rebelled if Arthur had exiled Merlin.”

Lancelot snorted, and Gwaine grinned. Such a reaction was not one he often saw from the clean-cut knight. “He would have found some other reason. If not Merlin, then Morgana. Or Guinevere. Or anyone who looked at him crosswise on a holy day. Men like Pynell are like that. They’ll find anyone but themselves to blame for their sins.”

“That they do,” Gwaine agreed quietly. He looked at Merlin, but the sorcerer’s face was in shadow. He seemed to be at peace. With Pynell arrested and bound for a final meeting with the headsman, perhaps they could all sleep more peacefully. “Now all we have to worry about are the Saxons.”

“You always find the dark lining to the cloud, don’t you?” Lancelot tucked the last of Merlin’s clothes into the bag and cinched it shut, then set it on the floor and sat down.

“If the world didn’t provide so many dark linings, I wouldn’t have to point them out,” Gwaine said and sighed. They were both quiet for a time, listening to the faint patter of rain against the high, small window. “Did you know he knowingly drank a poison in Arthur’s place?”

“Merlin did?” Lancelot’s eyebrows rose. “No, I didn’t know that. Doesn’t surprise me, though. Those two would do anything for each other.”

“They would,” Gwaine agreed. It was no wonder there were rumors of some ‘unnatural’ love between Arthur and Merlin. As though the love of brothers and friends were some sordid thing to be scorned and avoided. Clearly, the people who believed such things lacked something so profound in their own lives and made up for it by tearing others down. “Those two are special. Makes you wish you had someone like that looking after you like that.”

“Someone who would willingly drink poison for your sake?” Lancelot asked. Gwaine nodded. “Yes. And I would hope they’d never have to do it.”

“Yeah.” Gwaine looked over at Merlin again. He hadn’t moved. “Do you think he’ll have less trouble when Pynell’s gone?”

“God, I hope so. There can’t be that many noblemen in Camelot willing to move against Arthur by trying to kill Merlin. And there can’t be that many witchfinders these days. I think the only thing he has to worry about now is whatever sorcerers the Saxons bring. And Morgana.”

“Morgana’s a problem on her own,” Gwaine said darkly. 

“She’s been quiet for more than a year.” Lancelot gave him a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a small smile that quickly faded. “You saved him from that creature, you know. You’re the one who took it away and burned it.”

“Because I was the first through the door.”

“Of course you were the first through the door. That’s how you are. You’d sacrifice yourself for Merlin’s sake, just like Arthur would.”

“You’re laying it on a little thick,” Gwaine grumbled, but the other knight’s praise warmed his heart. Not that he would admit to it. 

Lancelot chuckled. “I’m only telling the truth.” 

“You’re good at that,” Gwaine said dryly. 

“Isn’t that what being a knight is all about? Truth, honor, duty, loyalty. Protecting those who can’t defend themselves? That’s what my oath was all about. Was yours different?” 

“I-”

Merlin made a sudden inarticulate sound of fear and loss, scrabbling against the blankets as he struggled to sit up. His eyes were wide, too shadowed to see their blue color but a thin ring of glowing gold shone bright in them before fading. He was breathing heavily and didn’t seem to know where he was or recognize the two men who rushed to his side. 

“Merlin?” Gwaine reached toward him, but stopped short of touching his arm. The sorcerer’s eyes looked almost black, his pupils were so wide. He wasn’t focusing on either of them, was instead blinking rapidly like he’d been looking at the sun. “Merlin? Can you hear me?”

Their eyes met and slowly, so slowly, Merlin’s eyes focused and recognition flooded in. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. You were asleep, then you called out and woke up, and here we are,” Gwaine said gently. “Did you have another one of your visions?”

“No,” Merlin breathed. “Not one of those. Never again. She was warning me, but I couldn’t understand her. Just like before. I don’t understand.” He pressed his shaking hands to his face and sagged. 

Gwaine and Lancelot exchanged uncertain glances.”Are you alright?” Lancelot asked.

Merlin’s brow creased. “As well as I ever am. Tired. How long was I asleep?”

“A couple of hours. It’s not even nightfall yet.”

“Oh. It feels later than that.” He looked up at them. His eyes had returned to their normal blue. “Are we leaving tomorrow?”

“We are, as long as the rain ends tonight. You told Arthur it would,” Gwaine said. 

“Did I? Must be true, then. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

Merlin nodded, blinking owlishly. “I’m still waking up. I’m a little hungry.”

“I know Arthur told you to eat something. Here. They brought something up for you,” Lancelot said. He stood and pulled the tray of food off the desk and handed it to Gwaine, then poured a cup of the cider. This, he held back until Merlin had eaten some of the bread and cheese, and until the sorcerer’s hands had stopped shaking.

“Did you find what you were looking for out there?” Gwaine asked. He snagged a bit of the cheese for himself. His stomach was starting to growl.

Merlin paused in his chewing and shook his head. “No, I didn’t. Think I lost more than I gained.” But what those losses might entail would remain a mystery. Merlin hurriedly swallowed and took another bite of bread. At least his appetite had returned. He’d come to resemble a scarecrow lately. 

Lancelot wasn’t so willing to give up, however. “What did you lose?” 

“The stars. Celestial music.” Merlin shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve comprehended it yet. I don’t know that I ever will. It’s- I don’t know. Confusing. What do you do when your gods turn away from you?”

Gwaine sat back, nearly dropping the tray. His fingers reflexively tightened around it before it slipped too far. “I don’t know. I’ve never been very religious.”

“And I always thought I was. Perhaps I wasn’t. Maybe I was just imagining it all. Or maybe they really have gone silent. I don’t know. Nothing feels the same anymore. Not quite. It’s like the world has shifted, but only a little. Like one of the colors has been taken away, but it wasn’t one you could name in the first place, so you can’t describe what’s gone. Do you know what that’s like?” He looked back and forth between them, but it didn’t appear that he expected an answer. “And now, all I hear is buzzing. Like birds flying.”

Gwaine swallowed and handed the cup to Merlin. The cider might help him to sleep again. “I think you should finish eating, then get some more sleep, mate. We’ll come and get you when it’s time to leave, so don’t worry about being late, alright? We’re going home.”

“Yes,” Merlin said. He held the cup to his lips and drained it in one go. “Home. Everything will make more sense there. Maybe I’ll find something in the library that will help, do you think? Geoffrey’s always helpful.” He laughed; the sound of it was almost disturbing. “Yes, we’ll go home, and it will be alright again.”


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief when the castle towers of Camelot appeared on the horizon. The long ride home had been uneventful with nothing more than a sprained ankle to care for and a few arguments over dice games. He counted himself lucky. It could have been so much worse. There could have been a siege at Venta Belgarum or a battle. Instead, they were coming home on a fine, early spring day when the sun was high in a cloudless sky, birds were singing, and there was nothing more threatening in the air than the ribald jests of men in high spirits. 

For now. Tomorrow, perhaps the day after, he would render his judgment against Pynell and after that… The sky seemed to darken. Arthur shivered and nudged Canrith toward the top of the rise where Merlin had brought Altair to a halt to look out over the horizon. “Ready to be home?”

Merlin looked back at him, squinting against the sunlight. “Yes. So I can take my mind off things.”

“I thought you left the city to do that,” he replied lightly. Merlin had been quiet on the way home. Contemplative, often staring off at nothing while they rode, trusting Altair to stay the course, not answering when he was called, and making Arthur grateful that the witchfinder who had hunted the sorcerer was dead. 

“It’s been noted that I’m not quite normal,” Merlin said wryly. 

“So I’ve heard,” Arthur said. It was hard not to notice Merlin’s strangeness. In the sunlight, he seemed to fade away, ghostlike when all others were solid and real. He was a man of the half-light, of the liminal spaces between worlds. It was no wonder most people gave him a wide berth. He was a difficult man to understand. Unless they gave themselves the chance to try to understand him.

If Merlin could be understood. At least he no longer suffered from fits of unnerving laughter. Surely some logic lay behind it, some explanation that would make everything clear, assuming one could see it through Merlin’s eyes. But Arthur wasn’t sure he’d want to see the world from Merlin’s perspective. His own point of view was troubling enough. 

He shook his head and blinked. Merlin was watching him, head tilted like he was trying to figure something out. “Are you alright?”

“You’re asking me?”

“I’m not about to sentence a lord of the realm to death.”

“Oh. That.” That curdled feeling returned to Arthur’s gut. “I’m trying not to think about it. It’s not working. I can’t figure out what I’m going to tell his son. Erec’s a good lad. He loves his father. How do I tell him I’m going to sentence his father to death? What if he hates me because of it? What if I don’t stop a civil war, I just delay it until Erec’s older?”

Merlin’s gaze shifted from Arthur to the forest. “I think the only thing you can do is tell him the truth. His father meant to revolt, to bring war to your doorstep. Maybe kill you. That is something a king cannot forgive. Erec’s quiet, but he’s not stupid. He may not understand all of this now, but he will.”

“You sound so sure of it.” 

“I am sure of it.” Merlin looked back at him. Then he caught wind of something, his head tilting as he squinted and shielded his eyes from the sun. “Someone’s out there,” he said, gesturing toward a flock of birds rising like a dark cloud above the trees.

“A messenger?” What news could be so urgent that they would send a rider to meet them? He’d sent his riders ahead after leaving Venta Belgarum to alert Guinevere of his return. “What could have happened to make them send someone to meet us?”

Merlin shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait until he gets here.”

“It can’t be good or they’d have waited until we arrived.” His mind raced through the possibilities: Guinevere was sick; Guinevere was dead; Saxons were crossing the border or had taken Tintagel; Morgana had shown up in his absence to usurp his throne. 

He yanked on Canrith’s reins and spurred the horse back to the road, scattering the soldiers marching down the hill. 

“Arthur!” Merlin shouted, but Arthur ignored him, urging his horse toward the bottom of the hill as fast as he dared.

He reached the head of the procession and was preparing to spur Canrith into a flat out run when Merlin caught up to him and Canrith inexplicably slowed to a trot, then to a stop and refused to move. “What did you do?” he shouted at the sorcerer, whose eyes were fading back to blue. 

“We don’t know what’s ahead, Arthur. That rider could be from Camelot, or it could be part of some ambush. If you’re going to ride ahead, at least wait for someone to go with you,” Merlin said, exasperated. 

“What’s going on?” Leon called. 

“There’s a rider coming in fast,” Merlin said. “Up the road a few miles off.”

“Bad news?” 

Arthur scowled. “It couldn’t be good. I wouldn’t send a rider out to tell someone everything’s fine.” His horse pawed at the ground, sensing his rider’s nervousness. Despite whatever Merlin had done to slow him down earlier, Canrith was anxious to be away again. Arthur tightened his grip on the reins. 

“Whoever it is, we needn’t rush to meet them,” Merlin said.

“I suppose you’re right,” Arthur grated. Behind them, the first ranks of soldiers were approaching, slowing when they saw the king stopped at the bottom of the hill. He called out to them, “Carry on. There’s a rider approaching ahead. It’s probably a messenger, but keep your eyes open. I’ll lead the way.” He kicked Canrith into a trot, forcing Merlin to match his pace or be left behind. Leon followed. 

It felt like half the day passed before they met the rider, but Arthur knew it was far less time than that. His imagination had taken over, exaggerating the length of the ride and creating new disasters that could have happened while they were away. Most of them revolved around Guinevere dead or dying, having been kidnapped, having fallen ill. He hoped he would be able to look back and laugh at himself for his worry. Perhaps it was nothing at all. Maybe it was just a high-spirited farmboy sent on errands and kicking his horse to an unwise pace on a fine spring day. 

But when he came around the bend, the rider was no farmboy or merchant’s courier. It was Elyan, muddy and wide-eyed on his horse, with a remount along in case of a longer ride ahead. He reined in and wiped his face.

“Guinevere?” Arthur asked, his gut in a cold knot.

Elyan shook his head. “Gwen’s fine,” he said. Then he looked at Merlin. “It’s Gaius. He fell a few days back. Broke his leg. Niniane’s been caring for him, but he took a turn for the worse this morning. Some sort of lung infection. And she says his heart’s failing.” 

Merlin’s face went gray. He looked at Arthur, eyes wide and lost, like the ground had opened up beneath him and he couldn’t find anything to grab to prevent his fall. “Go,” Arthur said. “We’ll follow as quickly as we can.”

Merlin took a deep breath, then nudged Altair forward, spurring him into a run as soon as he’d passed Elyan. He disappeared into the shade of the trees down the road within moments. 

“God go with you,” Arthur murmured, half-wondering if his god would bless Merlin or not. The wish was worth it, whether He listened or not. He turned to Elyan. “What happened?”

“He and Gwen were walking down some stairs. Gaius took a wrong step and fell. He broke his leg and hit his head.” Elyan’s jaw clenched. “Niniane said she could take care of most of the injuries with time, but she said his heart was failing and there was nothing she could do except maybe give him more time. Through the summer, perhaps. But he started getting worse, and early this morning he could barely breathe. Niniane did what she could, but she says she doesn’t have Merlin’s strength. So Gwen sent me to look for you. We weren’t sure how close to home you’d be.”

“Not close enough,” Arthur managed, looking back down the road toward home. “Do you think Merlin can save him?”

Elyan shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he can buy Gaius some more time?” 

“Maybe,” Arthur said faintly. He couldn’t imagine Camelot without Gaius. The old physician had always been there, steady as the castle walls and as unflappable. Arthur had gone running to him in childhood when he’d cried over skinned knees; at age ten, when Uther refused to take him into battle and left him behind; at fifteen, when he’d broken his arm during shield training, and all the other times he’d needed someone to complain to, someone to listen to him when his father would not. In some ways, the old physician was a second father.

He blinked back the tears in his eyes and cleared his throat. “Send word to Bedivere and Percival. We’ll be riding on ahead, but the army should keep to its pace. Maintain a watch on Pynell at all times, and ensure he doesn’t try to get away. I won’t have him escaping justice now, not when we’re so close to home.” 

Leon nodded and disappeared farther down the ranks of men that were beginning to file past them. He returned moments later. “I sent word on, but if you think you’re going on without me, you’d better think again,” he said.

Arthur gave him a crooked smile, then glanced at Elyan. “Thank you. Are you ready, then?”

Leon nodded. “I am. Let’s go home.”

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Afterward, Merlin didn’t remember the ride back to Camelot. He remembered Arthur telling him to go, then there was a blur, a long, long blur that ended only when Altair stopped, flanks heaving and flecked with foam, in front of the royal stables. He slid out of the saddle and rested his head against the horse’s neck. “I’m sorry, old friend. Thank you for bringing me home so quickly. I promise you can rest for a while now.” 

He handed the reins off to a stableboy and hurried away. The stablemaster would have words for him over Altair’s condition later, but that would be later. Now, he needed to see Gaius before it was too late. Unless it was already too late. The thought spurred him on, through the courtyard and into the castle keep, through hallways and up the winding stairs. He thought he heard a guard calling after him, but kept moving; he might have shouldered past a pair of servants, but he couldn’t remember later on. 

He was gasping for air by the time he burst through the door to Gaius’s chambers, half-prepared to find he was already too late, that Gaius was already dead, that he was too late. Had been too late by minutes and missed his chance to help or even say good-bye. 

The door nearly hit him as it bounced off the wall. He stumbled away from it, searching the room for signs of he knew not what. He felt a wetness on his face. Was he crying? He wiped his face on his sleeve. 

“Merlin!” a soft, low voice greeted him. He focused on Niniane's face and her wide eyes a moment before she wrapped her arms around him. “Elyan found you!” 

“Of course he did,” Merlin said, sniffing. “What happened?”

“Gaius fell down half a flight of stairs. He took a step and I heard a pop. I don’t know if the bone broke before or after his fall. I’ve heard that old people’s bones can do that. Break when they take a bad step, and then they fall.” She pulled away from him and looked deeper into the room where Gaius was sleeping. “It wasn’t until they brought up here and I was tending him that I realized his heart was bad. I thought, maybe with magic I could help him, but it’s not working. And then last night he developed an infection deep in his lungs, and this morning before dawn he was having trouble breathing, so we sent Elyan out to meet you as soon as it was light.”

“He found us. Thank you.” He took her hand and led her to Gaius’s bedside. The old physician slept peacefully, though he had changed since Merlin saw him last. He had gained weight, or was swollen; dark circles colored the skin under his eyes and there was a faint blue tinge around his lips. Merlin dropped into the chair beside the bed and rested his hand on Gaius’s forehead. “Gaius?”

The old physician stirred and opened his eyes, blinking up at Merlin in confusion. “Merlin? You’re here early. I didn’t think you’d arrive ‘til next week. Your mother sent a letter.” 

“A letter? What?” 

“He’s been confused all day,” Niniane said softly. “Sometimes he recognizes me, sometimes he doesn’t. He called me Hunith once.”

“My mother’s name. She’s been dead a year.” He looked back at Gaius and tried to smile. “I’m here now. The timing doesn’t matter. You rest now. I’ll look after you, alright?”

Gaius made a wheezing sound that might have been an agreement. “I’ll just rest my eyes for a moment.”

“You do that. I’ll be right here,” Merlin said. He took Gaius’s hand in his and rested his other hand on the physician’s chest, then closed his eyes and looked upon him with his mind’s eye, searching out the infirmities he could try to cure with herbs and draughts, the hurts he could cure with magic, and those that were incurable no matter what he tried. 

Gaius’s hip and leg were broken; he’d known that, and Niniane’s healing there was obvious. He helped that along, then set healing magic to work in Gaius’s lungs, clearing away the congestion in his chest, then moving on to his joints where fluid had built up, encouraging Gaius’s body to remove it. These things he could do, and so he did them though it drained him. 

But Gaius’s heart… There was the problem. Merlin could heal many things, but age was not among them. Gaius was an old man, worn down by the weight of his years and responsibilities. The strain had taken its toll; it had been taking its toll all winter, eating away at Gaius’s life without either one of them realizing it, and while he could lend some of his own strength to the old physician, even his magic was incapable of reversing the effects of age.

Days might have passed while he worked, and when there was nothing else he could do, when his strength was dangerously low, he finally pulled away and let go. He opened his eyes and moved to stand. The room began to spin and darken around him. His knees buckled.

Strong hands caught his shoulders and eased him down. “Here. Put your arms on your knees and keep your head down for a bit.” 

“Arthur?” Merlin turned his head and found Arthur sitting beside him. “When did you get here?”

“A couple of hours ago. I had some things to attend to, and then I came up here. How is he?” Arthur asked, reaching for something Merlin couldn’t see. 

“I’ve done what I could for him. I didn’t realize it had taken so long.” He started to straighten, but Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Give it a bit. You’re white as a ghost,” Arthur said. “And Niniane’s asleep. In your bed,” he added archly. 

“I’m not in it. What’s the problem?”

“Some would say that’s exactly the problem,” Arthur chuckled. “I had some food brought up for you. You’ll eat it while it’s still hot.”

“I’m not hungry,” Merlin said. 

“I didn’t ask if you were. I said you’d eat. It wasn’t a suggestion.” Arthur had brought a stool over and set a cloth-covered tray on it. He tossed the cloth away to reveal a plate of roasted beef and gravy spread across a trencher with cooked apples and a few spoonfuls of beans to the side. 

Merlin rubbed his eyes and took the spoon. While he would rather sleep for a year than eat anything, he dug into the apples first and forced himself to chew and swallow while Arthur watched every bit that passed his lips, like a worried mother ensuring her child ate enough. He wouldn’t even answer Merlin’s questions until half the plate was empty. 

“We got back a few hours after you,” was Arthur’s first answer. “The stablemaster was furious with you for running Altair like that. He says Altair’s not going anywhere for a week to make sure he’s recovered.”

Merlin hung his head. “I don’t even remember the ride back. I wouldn’t have run him so hard if I’d realized…”

“He’ll be alright,” Arthur said calmly. “And we’re not going anywhere for a while. Bedivere brought Pynell back to the city an hour or so after Leon and I arrived. He’s settled in the dungeons. In a more comfortable cell than he deserves, but he is a nobleman. His trial will begin in a couple of days. It won’t last long. A day, maybe two. And then..” he trailed off, clasping his hands together. 

“And then he’ll be executed,” Merlin said, his voice soft. He dragged his spoon through the remaining gravy and put it down.

“Yes,” Arthur said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

He would have asked, ‘then what’s the point of the trial?’, but of course he already knew: If Arthur wanted to show the people that justice prevailed in the kingdom, every criminal would have their trial, whether their guilt was known or not. “You don’t want me there, do you?”

“No. Not if you don’t want to be. Especially now.” Arthur looked at Gaius and bowed his head. “I should go,” he said roughly. “I have so much to do. Take care of him. Let me know what you need, I’ll see that you get it.”

Merlin nodded, only slightly comforted by the hand Arthur rested on his shoulder. He wished the king would stay and take command of the situation, tell him what to do to make things better. But of course, Arthur couldn’t do that. There was no taking control here. Not over the inevitable. He could only see it through to the end and try not to fall apart before then. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The next days passed in a blur of too much worry and too little sleep, and when Merlin looked back at it all he couldn’t remember who had come and gone or when he had eaten or slept, only that he had done so now and then at the behest of those who had come to help, though he couldn’t remember whose faces he had seen, only that faces had come to cajole him to rest and help him with the arduous tasks of caring for the dying.

When those faces left, though, and Gaius was asleep, grief brought him to his knees and squeezed the air from his lungs. He would begin to pray, then stop halfway through when he realized no one would hear him; or if some god was listening, they wouldn’t answer. The timing of it all played on his nerves like some twisted joke, as though the gods-- or the Goddess-- had planned things this way. Like they were trying to teach him humility at the cost of Gaius’s life. Guilt gnawed at the edge of his conscience. 

But there were things he remembered fondly, small daily happenings he made sure to focus on. Quiet moments of making tea or lighting candles in the evening; the oft-overlooked everyday events he wouldn’t have thought twice about on any other day, but they gained significance now, when he was saying to himself, ‘this might be the last time I make tea for Gaius’ or ‘this might be the last meal we share’. He tried to savor their sweetness, to ignore the bitter side that lurked just out of sight. 

For his part, Gaius was strangely content. Age, he said, had provided him a different perspective. “When you come to the end of your life, Merlin, you’ll understand. We’re given a life, and it’s up to us to make the most of them, and I’ve done that to the best of my abilities. Especially these past few years. I wish I could change what happened to you at Blackheath, but as for the rest of it? I’d take every bad moment because it brought you here. I know I’ve said it before, but you’ve been like a son to me. You and Arthur both.”

“I hope we haven’t given you as many headaches as most children seem to give their parents,” Merlin said as he smoothed the blanket over Gaius’s chest. 

Gaius patted his hand. “There were days I would have said you gave me more headaches. But. I wouldn’t trade them. It’s the fact that we got through those headaches that showed me you would be alright, even if I wasn’t there to help you. That’s what a father is meant to do. Teach his children how to get along in the world. There are always going to be some setbacks.” He chuckled and settled deeper into his pillows, wincing as he suppressed a cough. “You’ll find out when you have children of your own to look after.”

“I’m sure I will,” Merlin said, smiling sadly. As with marriage, he’d never foreseen children for himself. Only for others. However great his lineage had been, it would end with him. That he knew. But he didn’t have to share that with Gaius. “And I’ll keep your lessons in mind. Dealing with Arthur during his prattish years must be like dealing with young children.”

Gaius laughed. “There were days…”. He broke off and coughed deeply, a wet rattling sound emanating from his chest. “Don’t look at me like that, Merlin. If either of us could make this better we could. But there’s no cure for age. Not even for you.”

“But how long have you known? About this,” Merlin said, waving his hand in the air to encompass the situation. 

“How long have I known I was going to die? For a long time. At some point, we all face our mortality. I just didn’t know it was coming so soon.” He sighed. “And no matter how old you are, it always feels soon. As for this? Hm. I’ve suspected for a while. Known for sure? As long as you have.” 

“But how can you be so resigned to it? To d-” Merlin broke off and swallowed. “Aren’t you afraid?”

Gaius smiled like an indulgent father assuring his child there were no monsters under the bed. “I believe we get the eternity we’ve earned. I’m not worried about myself. It’s you and Arthur and Gwen and everyone else I’m afraid for. You’re going into such uncertain times, and I won’t be there to help you.” He raised a hand to Merlin’s cheek and brushed away the sorcerer’s tears. “The only thing I regret, Merlin, is that I won’t see the world you and Arthur will build together. But I know it will be a wonderful world, as long as you stay by each others’ sides.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere,” Merlin said. He took Gaius’s hand, and for once his fingers felt warm against another’s. “Arthur’s stuck with me. But for right now, I’m staying right here.”

“I know. Thank you, my boy.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


If the days were a blur for Merlin, they were a study in carefully measured tedium for Arthur while he oversaw Pynell’s trial. Though he was required to be there, it was the lawyers who did the arguing, sniping back and forth about degrees of action, intent, and guilt as though Pynell had cheated on tax payments or had bribed a guard to ignore some minor wrongdoing. Throughout a day and a half of arguments, Arthur couldn’t help but see it as one grand charade, a mummer’s farce in which there might be an outcome that wasn’t ‘guilty’. Everyone there saw it, too, from the lawyers to the page boys running messages to and fro. But the motions had to be gone through. The niceties had to be observed. Pynell would have his day in court, his chance to speak, his opportunity to drive the nails into his own coffin when he used his chance to speak to denounce Merlin as a heretic and an evil influence over the king, a man determined to return Camelot to the evil days of terror and paganism before Uther Pendragon had come to save them all. 

Perhaps, in another season, his argument might have held water among those assembled. If Arthur hadn’t been victorious on the battlefield and at the negotiating table or had married for power rather than love, they might have been inclined to listen. But every time Arthur walked the streets of Camelot and greeted a seamstress or a blacksmith by name, they learned where his concerns truly were. 

And as for Merlin… While there were whisperings of the Great Pagan’s intentions, everyone knew why he wasn’t there. He was away, burning his candle at both ends in a vain attempt to cure the incurable and save his dying mentor. 

In another season, some might have listened to Pynell’s claims. But regardless of the people’s feelings toward Merlin, Gaius was almost universally loved. And now he was dying, and those gathered in the hall were not inclined to listen to anything said against him or his student, no matter how magically endowed that student was. 

So in the end, the verdict was rendered the only way it could have been: Guilty. On every count Arthur’s lawyers could conjure up, guilty. 

And then the sentence: Death. 

That had been the only moment during the whole affair when Pynell had flinched, as though he hadn’t expected it to end that way, as though he had expected someone, be it God or Arthur or one of his fellow lords of the realm to come in at the last minute, provide some new evidence, and change things. 

Arthur had held the man’s gaze, expression calm and unchanging as though to ask, ‘What did you expect? Did you think, once the shackles went onto your wrists at Venta Belgarum, that some other end was possible?’ 

He hadn’t flinched at the hate-filled expression on Pynell’s face, but it had turned his stomach and left him alternately nauseous and raging, so full of emotion that he waited until everyone but Leon and Bedivere had left. 

“Are you alright?” Leon asked cautiously. 

He let out a slow breath to rein in his temper. “Insufferable to the last. You’d think he’d grow tired of accusing Merlin of everything he can think of. Especially now.”

“Maybe he thought that would put the people on his side,” Bedivere said, glancing at the door Pynell had been led through. “Merlin’s not the most popular person in Camelot.”

“It doesn’t matter that Merlin’s not universally liked. Pynell’s as popular as the plague right now. No one wants to see you deposed,” Leon added.

“And no one wants to hear anything against anyone close to Gaius right now,” Arthur said softly, glancing toward the windows as though he would be able to see out to the courtyard where crowds had gathered to pray for Gaius’s recovery. He wished he could be among them, wished he could have their ignorance and with that, the hope that the old physician would be alright. But he had seen the despair on Niniane’s face and the bleak hopelessness on Merlin’s. That there was nothing but age and human frailty to blame for Gaius’s impending death didn’t soothe Arthur’s grief or anger. 

“No, they don’t,” Leon said. 

Arthur sagged against his chair and rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to sentence once of my own lords to death. I don’t want to sentence anyone to death. We’ll need every able body that can wield a sword against the Saxons, but because a few men can’t bear to see someone who believes differently from them by my side, we must have dissent. This is not what I want for Camelot.”

“It will be over soon.”

“Will it?” Arthur looked up at them. “Will it stop here, or will I be stamping out treachery until the Saxons force us all to unite?” He signed and shook his head. “Where’s Guinevere?”

“She was with Gaius, last I knew,” Leon said. “I think she’s been there all day. Merlin’s wearing himself out caring for him, and so is Niniane. They’re trying to buy him a little more time.” 

Arthur nodded and stood. “I should go see him. I’ve barely been up there these past few days. I shouldn’t wait.”

“Most of the day’s business can wait,” Leon said. “And I can take care of whatever small matters can’t wait until tomorrow. Go. Take your time.”

“Thank you, Leon,” Arthur said, giving the knight a tired smile. Have them send food up to Gaius’s chambers. Guinevere and I will eat there tonight. The formal dinner will have to do without us tonight.”

Bedivere followed him upstairs. To protect him, perhaps, though from who he could not say. Maybe he was there to keep Arthur from falling as he trudged up the stairs. How many more times would he climb these steps? How many more times would he knock on that door? He hesitated, hand in the air before knocking softly. He waved Bedivere away. He wouldn’t need the knight’s protection here.

Guinevere answered, her smile tight and tinged with worry. “Is it over?”

“Yes, it’s over. In the only way it could have ended.” He wrapped his arms around her, breathing in her sweet perfume and, for a moment, allowed himself to forget the rest of the world. “Will you forgive me if I don’t want to talk about it?”

“I will. I don’t want to talk about it, either. Would you like some tea? Niniane’s making some for the two of us. I’m sure she could make some more.”

“Where’s Merlin?” 

“Over there,” she nodded toward the hearth and the screen that hid Gaius’s bed from view. “He’s asleep.”

“What about Gaius?”

“Awake for now. He’s tired but aware of himself. He’d be happy to talk to you, though it wears him out. Keep your voice down. Merlin’s in the chair. I think he’d sleep through a thunderstorm, but best to leave him be. He’s exhausted.” Guinevere led him to a chair at Gaius’s bedside. She fussed with the physician’s blankets for a moment, then kissed him on the forehead and departed. 

“How are you feeling?” Arthur asked softly.

“Well enough, all things considered,” Gaius said wryly. “Though I am tired of that question. I’m an old man, afflicted with all the aches and ailments that come with age. There’s nothing you can do about that.”

“I would if I could.”

“Even a king cannot command that,” Gaius said. His dry chuckle prompted a rattling cough that he tried to muffle as he glanced up at Merlin, wrapped in blankets and asleep. Though his face was in shadow, Arthur could see the dark circles under his eyes. “You will look after him when I’m gone? He doesn’t take care of himself as he should. I’m always reminding him to eat and rest.”

Arthur smiled. “I do the same thing when we’re away from home. For all the good it does. He listens to me as much as he listens to you.”

“Which is always less than he should. Sometimes I wonder if he loves too much. So much that he doesn’t care enough for himself. I worry that he’ll tear himself apart trying to protect everyone else.” Gaius took his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong. “You’ll watch out for him for me, won’t you?”

“I swear it,” Arthur said, gently squeezing Gaius’s hand to emphasize his point. Would he be making the same promise again minutes from now? “He’s the greatest friend I’ve ever had. I’d take an arrow for him if it came to it.”

“I know you would. Which is why I pray every day that no arrows come your way or his. Each of you would give your life for the other, and I hope it never comes to that. I would have you both live to be old, old men with gray beards and grandchildren you can spoil,” Gaius said. He shifted against the pillows, wincing with the movement. Arthur put a hand behind his back to help him move about until he settled and relaxed. “Thank you, my boy. You’ve always been a good lad.”

Arthur smiled. No one had called him a ‘good lad’ in years. “I know there were days when I wasn’t, but thank you all the same.”

“We all have our faults, Arthur. You, at least, learned to make your strengths better than your faults. That’s more than a lot of men can say.”

“I had help,” Arthur said, smiling. He glanced up at Merlin, who shifted in his sleep, his brow furrowing at some dream. 

“How are you feeling?” Niniane’s voice was soft but unexpected as she poked her head around the screen, her long braid swinging over her shoulder. 

“Oh, I’ve been better,” Gaius said with a melancholy smile. Arthur marveled that he could be so calm as such a time when his next breath might be his last. Perhaps that was the advantage of age, that when so many years of your life were behind you, you could face the remaining days and hours with peace. “But I’ve been worse, too. And I’d rather be right here, with all of you here with me, than anywhere else.”

“It’s good to have your family with you,” Niniane said. She leaned over the back of Merlin’s chair and touched him on the shoulder. “Merlin, wake up. Arthur’s here.”

The sorcerer made an inarticulate sound, his brow furrowing again as he woke. His eyes opened slowly, as though he had to drag them open with an extreme effort of will. He’d been working himself too hard again, sacrificing his well-being for Gaius’s sake. “Is it late?” he mumbled.

“No, it’s only mid-afternoon.”

“Feels late,” he said and rubbed his eyes. Then he jerked upright. “Gaius?”

“I’m fine, Merlin,” Gaius rasped. “But Arthur’s here, and I’m sure he’ll want to speak with you at some point.”

“Not for anything important,” Arthur assured Merlin when his still-sleepy gaze met his. “The trial is over. All I want now is to think about something else. Anything else.” There was a commotion on the other side of the room, with the creaking of door hinges and the muttering of low voices. 

Then Guinevere’s quick steps announced her arrival. “If anyone’s hungry, they’ve just brought food up.”

Arthur straightened. The scent of beef and bread was just beginning to fill the air. “I could eat. Merlin will eat,” he said, giving the sorcerer a stern glance. “It smells wonderful.”

“I’ll help them bring it over,” Niniane said brightly, disappearing behind the screen before anyone could say another word, reappearing moments later with Guinevere behind her. Both carried trays laden with food which they set upon stools Arthur had dragged over. Merlin was helping Gaius to sit up straighter. There was a brief flurry of activity as the women collected whatever forgotten bits of cutlery were left behind, cups for ale, medicines for Gaius, seasonings, and anything else the others found lacking. Arthur was content to sit back and let them fuss. If he were to try to fetch something, he’d only get in the way, and the others had everything under perfect control, moving around each other as though it were a coordinated dance they were performing, grabbing this or that item and serving food all around. And before he knew it, everyone was seated, plates on their laps as though they were sitting around a campfire.

“This is nice,” Guinevere said. “I think I like eating here better than eating in the great hall. You can talk without shouting at the person sitting next to you.”

“I think it’s the best place in all of Camelot right now,” Niniane said. “Anywhere your family is the best place of all.”

They all raised a cup to that, and in the golden afternoon light, Arthur realized Gaius was right. There was no other place he’d rather be. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Alas, that halcyon evening couldn’t last forever. The next morning, Arthur found himself staring out the window and dreading the things he must do next: He must decide when to put a lord of the realm to death, and he must tell that lord’s son what he had to do. Erec deserved that much from him. Perhaps he would grow to hate Arthur for it. A son’s love for his father was complicated. If Uther had been killed when Arthur was thirteen, he would have sworn eternal vengeance upon his father’s killer and become obsessed with it.. 

“You need to go to him.” Guinevere’s voice was close behind him, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. “He needs to hear it from you.”

“I know.” Arthur turned to face her. “But I worry that I’m about to create an enemy for myself. In ten years, will Erec turn against me? Will I be fighting the same battle all over again?”

“I suspect that all depends on what you do next,” she said. “If you rob him of a father and give him cause to hate you, then yes. We will be going through all of this again in ten years. But if you deal with him like you’ve dealt with Gareth, the way a father might treat his son, then I suspect he’ll be as loyal to you as any of your knights.”

“I hope so. I would have a peaceful reign, not one filled with fighting. The Saxons will bring enough of that.”

“Then go talk to him. Tell him the truth as you see it about Pynell. He was a sheltered, naive little boy but he’s growing up quickly. Be honest with him. That’s the only thing you can do,” Guinevere said softly. 

“It’s the doing of it that’s hard. I’m supposed to look into the eyes of this boy-- this child-- and tell him why I must kill his father. That it’s for the good of the realm. But I’m still depriving him of a father.”

She took his face in her hands. “Then you must become like a father to him. Like you’ve done for Gareth. You took him away from everything he’d known, made him a hostage to ensure his father’s cooperation, and look at what he’s become. A capable young man who is loved by everyone he meets, and who would follow you to the end of the earth.” 

“When did you become so wise about the ways of sons and fathers?” He gave her a weary smile and took her hands in his to kiss her fingers.

“By watching them carefully,” she said, rising up to her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Now go and talk to him. A difficult task isn’t made any easier by waiting.” 

“You’re right, of course,” he said, taking a step back and bowing to her. She smiled, then shooed him away. 

Erec’s room was down two flights of stairs and down a long hall, not quite in the servants’ quarters but not as luxurious as a noble’s. Usually, he hardly spent time there. Most of his time was spent in the training ring or at lessons with Merlin or Geoffrey. But Arthur had had the boy confined to his room throughout Pynell’s trial in case he decided to enact some ill-conceived plan to rescue his father from the dungeon. He would have done the same thing, though Erec didn’t have a sorcerer-in-secret for a servant to help him achieve his goal. 

Arthur waved the guards aside and knocked on Erec’s door. The boy answered moments later, eyes wide and reddened. “May I come in?” he asked.

Erec’s noded was shaky, but he stepped aside and gestured for Arthur to come in as graciously as any lord welcoming an old friend. “Is this about my father?” he asked, voice cracking.

“It is.” Arthur closed the door behind him and walked across the room, pulling its two chairs into the wide swath of sunlight. “Sit down, Erec. I have a feeling you already know what I’m going to say.”

The boy nodded as he slumped into his chair, staring down at his folded hands. “I haven’t seen him since you brought him back, but I heard that his banner was carried in upside down. The way it is for tr--” he took a breath and sniffed. “For traitors.”

“Yes. We arrested him at Venta Belgarum for plotting to raise an army and ride against me. I was willing to put up with his dissent and complaints, but I cannot forgive him for plotting to make war against me. He would have torn Camelot in two. I could not let him continue,” Arthur said, keeping his voice low and his gaze steady. “Do you understand that?”

Erec nodded and lowered his eyes. “The last time I saw him, he said- he said he’d have less room to complain if you sent Merlin away.” There was a soft, hopeful note in the boy’s voice. 

“He told me that, too. But look at me, Erec,” he said and waited for the boy to meet his eyes. “Do you believe that if I exile one innocent man, that our natures will change-- your father’s and mine? Do you really believe that we would suddenly see eye to eye, and there would be peace between us?”

“I-- I don’t know. Probably not.”

“And you’ve met Merlin. You’ve had lessons from him. In science and mathematics and history. You’ve had a chance to form an opinion of him,” Arthur said. “So tell me, what kind of man do you think Merlin is?”

Erec’s brow furrowed and he licked his lips. “He’s… He’s kind. And patient. He always has time for my questions, no matter how stupid they are. And he tells wonderful stories.” That prompted a faint smile, which Arthur returned.

“He does tell good stories.”

“But my parents always told me that magic was evil. That the people who used it wanted to destroy Camelot and take us back to the dark days of paganism. My father said people like that were damned to hell, and that we had to fight to stop the same thing from happening to us.” There was a look in Erec’s eyes, like he was fighting between two beliefs and wanted Arthur to tell him which one was the correct answer. 

“My father told me the same thing, too. And I believed him for a long time. But I see things differently now,” Arthur said. “Merlin showed me, many times, that magic could be used for good. He defended me before I knew what he truly was, and he still defends me. He heals people-- even those who spit in his face. And he would sacrifice his life to save mine. But I can’t tell you what to believe. You have to look inside yourself and decide what you think is right or wrong.”

Erec nodded, his gaze going back to his hands as his chin sank to his chest. He was quiet for a long time, then spoke in a tiny voice. “When is he to die?”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Tomorrow.”

“Do I have to watch?”

“No!” he said more vehemently than he intended. “No. You can stay in here if you want. I’ll have one of the knights stay with you, if you want.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’ll see to it. Would you like to talk to him tonight?”

“I think so. It seems like something I should do. I won’t have another chance.”

No, he wouldn’t. This time tomorrow, Pynell would be a memory, a ghost that would haunt Arthur’s waking hours, pushing him to ask ‘was there another way?’ until he convinced himself of the rightness of his course. “Let’s go, then. We’ll walk there together.” 

Erec nodded faintly, pushing himself out of his chair and slouching towards the door. Arthur followed, waving the guards off and half-prepared to catch the boy if he should fall. But by the time they reached the castle’s lower levels and the prison in which fallen nobles were held, Erec had straightened and was holding his head high. He had grown, Arthur suddenly noticed. He was broader in the shoulder than he’d been when he arrived last year, and taller, too, but without Gareth’s lanky clumsiness. Maybe that would come later, or maybe he would grow up to be one of those compact men lacking in height or grace, but who were immovable as the standing stones. 

“I’ll wait here, if you want me to,” Arthur said, gesturing toward a bench at the end of the hall. 

“Thank you.” Erec glanced up at him, then looked away and took a breath, steeling himself for what he had to do next. Then with a long, shaking breath, he raised his chin and looked the guard in the eye. “I’d like to see my father. The former Lord Pynell.”

The guards nodded and ushered him into the dungeon. The door clanged shut behind them, leaving Arthur to his thoughts. There were a lot of those. What would he do with Erec now? The lands of Hightower would pass to the boy, but it would be years before he could take up his responsibilities. Who would administer the lands before then? Lady Pynell, who was as old-fashioned as her husband? And what would he do with Erec until he came of age? 

Well. That question was easy enough. The boy needed to learn how to administer his lands, as well as learning the business of war that was part and parcel of being a knight. Ergo, he needed to become a squire. But for whom? Leon, he decided after a moment. Leon hadn’t had a squire for too long, and his steady temperament would suit the boy’s need for stability. 

Perhaps he should summon the sons from the rest of Camelot’s outlying lands and make them squires to his knights and ensure the loyalty of the next generation. It would help them see that their parents’ way of thinking wasn’t the only way. Even if Merlin had been wrong when he said the old religion was dying out, it wouldn’t hurt the boys to learn that it wasn’t evil, that even his own knights-- ones who had served under Uther-- had grudgingly come to accept Merlin. They might make a sign against evil when the sorcerer’s back was turned, but they were willing to accept his help and his magic after taking a fall in the tiltyard or an arrow on the battlefield. If the son of King Arthur’s greatest rival could accept Merlin’s ways, then surely other noble sons could do the same. Would those noblemen howl with complaints at having their sons taken away, or would they see their sons’ placement as an honor? 

And what would all this mean for the noble daughters? Elayne and Linnet had no qualms about serving their low-born queen, but would other young women turn their noses up at it? Would they refuse a position of such honor as lady-in-waiting to the queen because Niniane was there, too? 

He rested his head against the stone wall, mind awash with his imaginings of the nobility’s reactions, both good and bad though he knew he could not predict the attitudes of men and women from across the kingdom, some of whom he hadn’t seen since he was a boy. Could he risk going on progress this summer to meet with them and ensure their loyalty, or would the threat of a Saxon invasion ensure their loyalty, whether they had seen him face to face or not? 

He spent a while arguing the merits of both sides in his head, but drew no conclusions. He’d raise the issue in council and see if his advisors had any better ideas. Guinevere surely would, as she’d already shown when she charmed Caradoc by promising to help him repair a bridge. 

“One little bridge,” he muttered, smiling. If bridges helped to keep the Saxons out of his lands, he’d build a hundred more of them. If only it were that simple. 

Arthur sighed and let his mind wander from there, watching the narrow shadows as they lengthened across the floor until finally the door rattled and groaned on its hinges to reveal Erec. The boy walked down the hall without seeing it, his expression thoughtful and his eyes dry. 

“Have you said everything you wanted to say?” Arthur asked.

“Yes.” Erec took a deep breath, released it, and looked up at Arthur. “He’s changed since I was little. He used to smile. He wasn’t so angry. Or bitter. You should have seen the way he glared when I told him I’d grown to like Merlin. I’d thought all those rumors about how much he hated the old religion were overblown. I guess they weren’t. I don’t know why he’s gotten to be so full of hate.”

“A wise man once told me that all our fathers fail us at some point. My father failed me more than once. He may have been a king, but he was as fallible as any other man. It’s something we should all keep in mind.”

Erec nodded, his brow still furrowed. “Oh. He wanted to speak with you, if you were willing to. He didn’t say what about.”

“I think I know. Wait for me here. We need to have a talk when I’m done,” Arthur said. Erec’s eyes widened in alarm. “It’s nothing bad, I assure you. But it is about your future. Now go and sit. I don’t think I’ll be long.”

A guard escorted Arthur down the long hall to the chamber where Pynell was spending his final days. It was sparsely furnished, though clean and dry, and lit by a handful of tallow candles. Thanks to his status, Pynell had been granted a single servant-- his man Cerdic, who had attacked Leon and Elyan on the road home, and who would share his master’s quarters and his fate. “You wanted to speak with me?”

Pynell stood, his head held high and his jaw working as he regarded Arthur. “You turned over my son’s care to the sorcerer?”

“Yes. Merlin teaches Erec and Gareth history and mathematics. Neither has complained about their lessons.” 

“I suppose there is nothing I can do about that, save to pray that he doesn’t corrupt their souls.” Pynell made a slow, deliberate sign against evil. “But what happens when Erec reaches his majority? Will you strip him of his ancestral lands? Take away his home?”

“No,” Arthur said. “Your family did not rebel. Only you did. They won’t suffer for your actions. Erec will inherit Hightower, but your wife will not oversee it for the time being. I will send a suitable steward to rule there in her place until Erec is ready. In the meantime, I’ll summon your family to live here, where I can keep an eye on them. I won’t have more trouble coming from your household. I cannot afford such dissent in the kingdom.”

“And you’ll let pagans roam freely through your kingdom? Through your court? You’ll let them spread their lies and their poison across this land?”

“This is an old argument from you, and I’ve grown tired of it. The world is changing, and if Camelot is going to survive, then it needs to change, too. We can’t cling to old prejudices. You fought a great enemy of Camelot, but that enemy is gone. I won’t spend my reign persecuting those who don’t deserve it.”

“Then I will pray that your decision doesn’t come back to haunt you. The whole of Camelot should pray for it.”

Arthur gave him a level look. “I pray every day that my decisions are for the best.”

“And yet there may come a time when the people regret what you’ve done. They may look back on these times and remember what I stood for.”

For a moment, Arthur wished he could throttle the man before him to shut him up. But the moment passed quickly, leaving behind a deep regret for the intractable minds of old men. “No, my lord. They will forget you.”

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
That night, Arthur wearily climbed the stairs to Gaius’s chambers. It had been a trying day of pursuing the details of protocol when it came to executing a lord of the realm, though Uther had found plenty of reason to record them during his reign. Geoffrey had appeared to be as heavy-hearted at pulling them out of the archive as Arthur had been to ask for them, but there was nothing for it. There was protocol for this, and it must be followed. He hoped it would be the last time he would need it. 

Other matters had been less troubling. Leon had assented to Erec becoming his squire, and the boy had seemed as pleased as he could be, under the circumstances. There had been other matters, too, simpler things to do with farms and cattle and the rebuilding of the lower town; plans for buildings written up by master builders that needed the king’s approval to go forward, though what he could add that the builders hadn’t already thought of was a mystery to Arthur. He’d approved the plans and let them get on with their days, then moved onto the next thing and the next, until the sun went down, he put all business aside and went upstairs. 

Merlin greeted him at the door, looking more exhausted than Arthur had ever seen him. “Have you slept at all?”

“Not since yesterday. I don’t want to, in case… In case he needs me.” He glanced over his shoulder to the screen and the sickbed behind it. 

“How is he?”

A pause, then Merlin sighed. “Declining,” he all but whispered. “Sometimes he knows me, sometimes he doesn’t. He’s asked for you.”

A pang of guilt stabbed at Arthur’s chest. “I’m sorry. I would have come earlier.”

“I know. I’m not trying to make you feel bad.” Merlin rubbed his eyes, then ran his hand through his hair so it stood up on end. “I’m just tired and saying things.”

“I know. Is he awake?” 

Merlin nodded. “For now. Go and talk to him. I’ll be here if you want anything. Or if he does.”

“I know. You should get some sleep.” He rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and gently pushed him toward his room. “I’ll call if we need anything.” 

The sorcerer made an inarticulate noise as he trudged forward, though he made it as far as the table before dropping into a chair, his hands going to some small task left undone. Arthur had a feeling he’d fall asleep on the table before long. No matter, though. When he finished talking to Gaius, he’d bundle Merlin off to bed and come back to see them both tomorrow.

Arthur let the sorcerer be and peered around the screen. Gaius was half-asleep, one hand resting on the blanket, his head turned toward the fire burning low on the hearth. He edged past the baskets of blankets and linen, the stool covered with bottles of medicines and liniments, past the bed itself lest he jar it and cause the old physician more pain. The chair he sat in was covered with worn coverlets and showed signs of having been slept in. 

“Is that you, Arthur?” Gaius asked blearily.

“Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry it took so long.” He took the physician’s hand; the skin was dry and papery. 

“I’m sure you had more important things to do,” Gaius said. There was a wheeze behind his words. 

“There were things to do. I’m not sure all of them were more important.” 

“The kingdom’s business is always more important than one old man.” Gaius chuckled, but his soft laughter turned into a cough. Arthur eased him upright until the fit passed. 

“I could have done without the long-winded explanation of stone masonry I spent a full hour sitting through,” Arthur said. “The masons could have told me the granary they were planning was going to be so big and so tall, and that it would hold this much grain, and I would have approved it. Instead, they told me all about the structure, and how the windows were arranged to keep fumes from causing rot. It all sounded very well-thought-out, but I didn’t understand half of it.”

“And that is why you keep intelligent people around you. You can’t understand everything, but there will be someone who knows about the matter before you, and if you listen to them, they’ll give you their best advice. That’s how a good king should rule. By listening first.” Gaius patted his hand. 

“I do my best.”

“I know you do. You’re a good lad. I wondered about you for a while there, but you turned out well.”

“I had some help. Merlin’s been a good influence,” Arthur said softly. There was silence from the rest of the room; the sorcerer must have fallen asleep at the table. 

“He’s a good lad, too. He needs to learn to take care of himself, though. He works himself too hard. You’ll look after him for me, won’t you?” Gaius gave him a beseeching look. 

“I will. As much as I can. He doesn’t always listen to me.”

“Or anyone else. Except perhaps Gwen or Niniane.” Gaius smiled fondly. “Women are good at getting under your skin and seeing to the heart of a matter. Your mother was like that, too. Sure of herself. She knew how to manage your father, how to keep him from going too far. She tempered his anger. After she died, there was no one left to tame his rage. Gwen reminds me of her. Although, I think you know how to deal with your anger the way your father didn’t. Still, there’s nothing like having a good woman at your side to make sure you’re not acting like a fool.” His smile turned bittersweet. There had been a woman like that for Gaius once, Arthur remembered, though she was gone now. 

“Guinevere does her best to keep me from being too stupid. I try not to test her patience too much.”

Gaius’s laugh turned to cough again, a harsh rasping that, when it finally ended, left the physician gasping for air. Arthur hovered, wishing he knew what to do. “Would you like some water or… anything?”

Gaius weakly waved him off. “Just a bit of water,” he said when he finally caught his breath. 

There was a pitcher of water back on the table. Arthur picked it up and filled a cup as quietly as he could, for Merlin had indeed fallen asleep, his head resting on his folded arms. Only some of the weariness had left his face; it would likely remain there until… He shook his head and grabbed a blanket from off his chair to drape around Merlin’s shoulders, then brought the water to Gaius. 

“Thank you, my boy.” 

“You’re welcome.” Arthur brushed a stray lock of hair away from Gaius’s face. It felt brittle. “Do you want anything else? Some food? I could wake the cook and have him make whatever you wanted.”

Gaius smiled and shook his head. “No, leave the cook be. I’m not hungry. Just promise me you’ll look after Merlin, alright?”

Arthur’s answering smile was shaky. Gaius had already asked him this. Had he already forgotten? “Of course I will. I’d be lost without him.” 

“You should tell him that,” Gaius rasped. “That’s the sort of thing we should tell each other all the time, but never do. Not until it’s too late. Don’t leave things undone. Do that for me, alright?” He blinked owlishly, clearly sliding back toward sleep. 

“I’ll do that. As much as I can,” he said. Gaius gave him a beatific smile before sleep took him completely. Arthur watched him for a while, wondering just when the physician had grown so old. Where had all that time gone? Vanished into the past, moment by forgotten moment until years had built up and washed away like the tide draining back to the sea. 

He sighed and leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on Gaius’s brow. “Goodnight, old friend. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The next day dawned so bright and clear it seemed like the skies were mocking Arthur. Executions called for clouds and gloom, like the sun should hide its face from such cruel deeds. At least those gathered to witness the event were suitably somber. At other executions-- those of sorcerers and Druids burned or beheaded for their magic-- there had been a celebratory air, like those gathered were attending a festival and not a murder. 

Arthur was thankful those days were over.

He still wished for clouds.

Guinevere was beside him as he stepped into the sunlight, her fingers wound so tightly around his he thought they would break. But her anxiety did not show on her face or in her bearing. In a gown of crimson silk, her bearing straight and proud, she looked every inch a queen. Arthur fought to keep his shoulders squared and his head up to match her poise, though he wanted to curl up to ease the knot in his gut. He’d had no appetite for breakfast, and now his stomach was turning over on itself. He hoped he wouldn’t throw up when the axe fell. 

“Are you alright?” Guinevere murmured as they took their seats on the platform across from the scaffold. 

“No,” Arthur whispered back. “I don’t think I will be today. Ask me tomorrow.” She squeezed his hand even tighter. 

“It will be over soon,” she said. If she felt as nauseous as he did, her dark skin hid it well. He envied her poise. 

“I wish it didn’t have to happen.”

“I know.” 

He took two deep breaths to calm his nerves, just as he did before a battle; deep breaths to try to convince his body that everything was alright. There was no danger here. Not for him. 

He caught Leon’s eye. The knight nodded once, sharply. Everything was going as it should. Neither of the condemned men were struggling against their fates. Pynell, at least, was facing his last hours with the stoicism Arthur had seen yesterday. He hoped the serving-man, Cerdic, was doing the same. 

A warm breeze blew through the courtyard, setting the flags to fluttering and sending more red flickering through his vision. The flags, the knights’ cloaks, Guinevere’s gown. The blood that would soon stain the scaffold. The reality, he knew from experience, would be worse than his imaginings. 

There was a low buzzing from the crowd- knights and squires, lords and ladies, and others from the guilds and the church; Father Gildas was there to pray for the condemned. His worn brown habit was a welcome change from the crimson cloaks and the too-bright ladies’ gowns. The buzzing of the crowd and fluttering flags filled Arthur’s skull to the brim. He was glad he needed to say nothing today. His only duty was to be a witness, to make sure the man was dead.

Pynell. He had to remember the name. Lord Pynell of Hightower, who was a lord of the realm, a soldier, a father. And a traitor. He must remember the last one, too. 

There was a distant cry-- or at least it seemed to be distant-- of ‘ _ Bring up the bodies!’.  _ The constable of the prison, the man in charge of the dungeon and its prisoners. He was calling for the guards to bring the condemned into the open air, down the long walk, and up the scaffold stairs to their end. A hush fell over the crowd, but there was still a ringing in Arthur’s ears. 

He watched them come. Cerdic was hunched over, his shirt drenched with water or sweat, his eyes on the ground. He stumbled now and then, prompting the guards to haul him to his feet and drag him along. Behind him, Pynell held his head high. His white shirt was crisp and clean, his hair neatly combed, his beard trimmed as though he had prepared for his wedding instead of his death. He didn’t stumble. He was prepared to make a good end, though he hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. But only for a moment. 

In the blink of an eye, it seemed, the servant, Cerdic, was before the block and given his chance to speak. He held his tongue. Whatever his last words were, they had already been spoken; what was in his mind now was between him and God. He was quiet still when he knelt and leaned forward, resting his head on the wooden block as the executioner tugged his rucked up shirt away from his neck. Then Cerdic heaved a sigh and closed his eyes and the executioner stepped back and raised his axe. 

A blink later and it was done, though the memory of it had already vanished from Arthur’s mind, purged from his memory like it had never happened, though a corpse lay upon the scaffold in a growing puddle of red. Men converged upon the spot, wrapping the head in swathes of old linen and bundling the body into a box before tossing sawdust into the gory pool to stop its spread. 

All too soon it was Pynell’s turn to stand before the block and speak his peace, decrying his sins and beseeching the people to pray for the king, to pray for Camelot. Though Arthur tried to listen, the words could not drown out the buzzing in his head. Someone would be writing the man’s speech down. He would read it later, when the ice had melted from his veins. 

Guinevere’s fingers locked tightly around his. 

Pynell finished his speech, tugged his shirt straight, and knelt. When he turned his head against the block, he locked eyes with Arthur, as though daring the king to flinch or look away. 

Arthur did not flinch. 

Sunlight glinted off the headsman’s axe as it rose. 

Then it fell.

And fell.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


From within Gaius’s chambers, Merlin heard the low rumble of the crowd. He looked toward the window and stretched his senses, felt their dismay and satisfaction, and no small amount of disgust. For a fleeting moment he tasted blood in his mouth and the ferrous stink of it filled his nostrils. He half-choked on it, then remembered to breathe. The phantom scent vanished, leaving behind only the sickroom scents he’d become accustomed to. 

“What’s happened?” Gaius asked weakly. 

“Pynell’s dead,” Merlin answered faintly. He thought he would have been relieved at the news, but he just felt numb, too worn out by the past days’ labors to care much about a traitor’s death. It had shaken Arthur, though. He sensed that all too clearly. Killing another man in the heat of battle was one thing. Forgivable in its gruesome way. But the king had never sentenced a man to death before, and for it to be a lord of the realm… He shook his head. “At least it’s over. Now there’s one less threat.”

“Oh. He was always a thorn in Arthur’s side. One of Uther’s greatest captains, though. He and Arthur’s uncle Agravaine. Until Agravaine fell out of favor. I don’t know why. Must have been one of his schemes. He was always scheming. It drove Uther mad.”

“I thought Uther’s brother was killed before he could take the throne?”

“Not Uther’s brother. Ygraine’s. He loved his sister, Agravaine did. Perhaps too much. He went away when she died. We never heard from him again. Be careful of him if he ever comes back. He doesn’t smile with his eyes.” Gaius frowned, his breathing fast as though he had exerted himself. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Merlin soothed, resting a hand on the physician’s forehead. 

Gaius brushed him away. “No magic.”

“I’m not. I was checking for a fever, that’s all.” He shifted his motion to smooth the blankets over Gaius’s chest. Since the first day Merlin had been home, the physician had steadfastly refused to allow either Merlin or Niniane to use magic to try to heal him. ‘Old age can’t be cured’, he’d say, and while Merlin knew he could ease Gaius’s discomfort, he abided by the physician’s wishes. 

What Gaius couldn’t do was stop him from spending every waking moment at his bedside, ready to fetch this or that or call for a servant to get anything he didn’t have at hand. And Niniane had been there, too, urging him to eat and sleep now and then. He could hear her now, preparing remedies and humming quietly. The faint music was soothing- an old lullaby. 

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Gaius said as brushed at the two-days’ worth of stubble on Merlin’s jaw. “How are you supposed to take care of other people if you can’t keep your own eyes open for lack of sleep? A good physician knows his limits.”

“Oh, come now,” Merlin smiled. “I’ve seen you worry over your patients all night. And I’d need all my fingers and toes and then some to count the times I’ve had to tell you to eat or sleep while you were watching over someone.”

“Do as I say, Merlin, not as I do,” Gaius said. The old spark had returned to his eyes, but his soft laugh prompted another coughing fit that left him gasping for breath. Merlin slipped an arm behind his back and helped him sit up, though it meant he could sense everything that was wrong with him. The fluid in his lungs, his irregular heartbeat. The general ebbing of his life… Merlin set his jaw and willed his tears away. Time ran out for everyone; even he would one day face the specter of death. But he hadn’t imagined it would be so soon. Not for Gaius, his age notwithstanding. He’d thought he would have years to learn from the old physician, have his steady council to rely upon when his own brain failed to find a solution. 

“You’ll be alright,” Gaius said weakly. He raised an eyebrow at the incredulous expression Merlin gave him. “I’ve seen that look on enough faces to know what it means. We rarely expect death to come when it does. Unless we’re old men or we’ve been ill for a long time. And I’m both of those things. I’m not afraid of what comes next.” He paused to catch his breath. “I’m only afraid for you. And for Arthur. But I know you’ve both developed enough wisdom to see you through. And neither of you is afraid to ask for advice. That’s important. Uther never listened.” Gaius’s eyes fluttered shut while he tried to catch his breath.

Merlin adjusted the pillows behind the old physician and fussed with the blankets, taking a moment to swipe at the tears in his eyes. “Do you need anything?” he asked when the tightness in his throat had gone away. 

Gaius shook his head. “No, Merlin. Not now. Just stay here.” He reached out for Merlin’s hand, which Merlin took between both of his. Gaius’s fingers were cool and dry. His fingernails were tinged with blue, as was the skin around his mouth. He lay quietly for a while, his rasping breaths the only sound in the room. Niniane had paused her work; Merlin sensed her nearby, watching over both of them.

“Merlin?” Gaius whispered. 

“I’m right here,” he replied, gently squeezing Gaius’s hand. 

The old physician opened his eyes. They were cloudy and unfocused, and he searched about for a moment before finding Merlin. “Oh, there you are. I’d thought you’d gone.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay right here, as long as I need to.”

Gaius smiled. “You’re a good lad, Merlin. A better son than I could have hoped for in my old age. You and Arthur both. And I know. You’re not my real children. But I love you like you were. Both of you.”

“And you’ve been the father I never had.” Merlin gave him a wavering smile. 

“High praise. Take care of your brother for me. He’s like you. He doesn’t take care of himself, either.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed. His brother? Oh. Arthur. He chuckled in spite of himself. “I will. He’s still too good at getting himself into trouble.”

“I think he always will be. He has a rare talent for it. All kings do. Just like all sorcerers named Merlin.” Gaius’s cloudy gaze fixed on Merlin, though his smile was fading. “I think I’ll have a rest now. Be good.”

“Of course,” Merlin said. “I always try to be.” 

Gauis’s smile widened again, then faded as he sank into sleep. His hand went lax and heavy in Merlin’s, but he didn’t let go. 

Around him, all had gone quiet. Even the birds had fallen silent, as though they realized their cheerful songs were unwelcome on such a somber day. Beyond the birds, the crowd that had gathered in the square was quiet, too, or had dispersed after the headsman completed his task. Arthur, Guinevere, and the knights would be returning to the keep; the servants preparing for supper in the hall. The people were getting on with their day, seeing to the mundane tasks they filled their lives with and soon forgot about. Such tasks that Merlin remembered doing for Gaius-- sweeping and grinding herbs and moving books, and all the other little things he complained about while doing them. Now he wished he had all those moments to live again. He would focus on them, cherish them; realize that there were a finite number of them. If he could go back, he’d tell his younger self to realize what a precious gift those simple tasks were, not for the work done, but for the time spent with Gaius. The old physician may not have been his father by blood, but he had become one through attention and love. 

He reached out and tucked errant strands of hair behind the old physician’s ears and brushed his fingers over Gaius’s cheeks. The skin already seemed cool. He bit his lip, hoping that the spark of pain would keep the tears building up in his eyes. 

All was quiet, save for the soft rasp of Gaius’s breathing. 

There was another breath. 

Another.

A sigh. 

Then silence. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The westering sun was casting long shadows over the city by the time Arthur and Guinevere returned to the keep, their fine clothes covered in a layer of fine dust. The rusty scent of blood was thick in the back of Arthur’s throat. He wanted nothing more than a cup of wine to wash it away and help him forget for a while. He’d had enough of death for one day. 

They paused as they left the light behind, stepping into the cool shadows of the hall. Guinevere rested her head against his shoulder. “It’s done,” she whispered. “Maybe things can be as they were before.”

He kissed the top of her head, whispered, “I hope they can, too.” Though he doubted the world could go back to the way it was. If a tree toppled over, the forest wasn’t the same after; if a river changed its course it was still the same river, but the land was changed forever. The world was always changing. The trick, he was learning, was to accept that the course of life never ran true. All a person could do was learn to endure the changes and make the most of them. 

“Shall we eat a bit, or do you want to go and see Gaius now?” he asked as they set out for the stairs, their backs straight again and eyes adjusted to the interior darkness. 

“I’m not hungry. I don’t think I’ll be hungry for a while.” She put a hand to her belly as though it pained her. He couldn’t blame her; he couldn’t imagine wanting to eat now or for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, perhaps, when the scent of blood wasn’t so strong in his nose, they would eat. He should ask Guinevere to wear her best perfume tomorrow. It was sweet, like lavender honey, reminding him of the golden days of summer with every breath. A reminder of life, not death.

Guinevere paused. “Should we change our clothes? I feel so dusty.”

“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Arthur said, a smile spreading across his face for the first time all day. “Let’s go upstairs. We could all do with some company to brighten the day.” 

It was Niniane who met them on the stairs, her wide green eyes rimmed with red and tears on her cheeks. She couldn’t speak between her stuttering breaths, but Arthur didn’t need to hear what she had to say. 

“No,” he whispered. No, no, no. Not today, of all days. He hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye.

He let go of Guinevere’s hand and slipped past the girl on the stairs, all but flying up the worn stone steps, half-stumbling half-running until he threw open the door, barely thinking to catch it before it slammed against the wall. 

The room felt cold, and overflowed with shadows. The ever-burning candles had gone out, as had the fire on the hearth, as though the spirit that had gone had taken all the light and warmth with it. Arthur shivered, his steps wavering as he walked in, dragged his fingers along the physician’s table, noticed the tasks left half-done. He had to remind himself to breathe; there was still air in the room, though it was hard to draw a breath past the tightness in his throat. 

He hadn’t been there to say good-bye…

Beyond the screen, past the baskets of blankets and the bottles of medicines, a still and silent figure lay on the bed, covered by a shroud. Arthur had seen death before. It didn’t frighten him. But he would not pull the cloth back. He wanted to remember the living face of the man who had all but raised him. He wanted to remember Gaius’s voice and wisdom, his dry humor and the way he spoke volumes merely by raising an eyebrow. 

All of that, now gone.

He forced himself to look away from the figure and found Merlin, sitting still as stone in the bedside chair. His eyes were red, but dry. ‘He was worth your tears,’ Arthur wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come any more than his own tears would. He at least managed to drag in a breath.

Out in the room, there was the rustling of skirts and whispered voices. Niniane and Guinevere, going about the work of seeing to the dead, moving forward with the business of living while the men were paralyzed but its sudden ending.

Arthur dropped to his knees. Merlin finally stirred and looked at him. “It was peaceful. He fell asleep, and his breath left him.” He sounded young, like the gawky peasant boy Arthur had met so many years ago. 

“Did he…” Arthur’s voice cracked. He swallowed back the pain. “Did he say anything? At the end?”

“Be good.” Merlin’s hand moved toward the shrouded figure, then stopped and fell to his side. “I hope I can live up to it.”

“Be good.” Arthur sucked in a breath. “That sounds like him.” Gaius’s essence, wrapped up in two words, with nothing more to ever be said. He felt a stinging in his eyes. Then Guinevere’s hand was on his shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around him. And for the first time since he was a child, Arthur wept. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Epilogue

They buried Gaius by the church in the lower town, in the graveyard among the other townspeople, long dead. Arthur had asked Merlin if he wanted the old physician to rest in the forest beside his parents, but Merlin had said no. Gaius had spent his life helping the people of Camelot. He would have wanted to stay among them. 

So they had gathered below the unfinished walls of the church- Arthur and Guinevere, the council, the knights, and every noble family that wanted to be noticed, and he would have sworn that every last citizen of the city had packed into the space to listen to Father Gildas’s eulogy. The ground around the open grave had been buried in a carpet of snowdrops left by mourners wishing to express their love of Gaius. 

Near the foot of the grave, hand in hand, dry-eyed and silent, were Merlin and Niniane. Even in such close confines, there was a space around them, as though the faithful didn’t want the touch of the two pagans to sully them. They looked so alone among all those people, and they clung to one another like they were wandering through the wilderness. Arthur wondered if either of them had heard any of Gildas’s sermonizing. They seemed to be in their own world, silently communing, giving Gaius a eulogy of their own devising. Arthur almost wished he could listen to it instead. 

“...to the dust we return.” Gildas’s low voice broke through the fog of grief and wondering clouding Arthur’s mind. He blinked and managed not to wince when the first handful of dirt hit the stone coffin.

It felt so… final. 

He swallowed against the knot in his throat and drew in a long, slow breath. It wouldn’t do for the king of Camelot to be seen openly crying over the death of one of his subjects. His tears were for what private spaces were available to him. His own chambers. Gaius’s chambers.

No, he corrected himself. They were Merlin’s chambers now. Gaius had a place in eternity. 

Guinevere squeezed his hand as the bell began to toll. As a queen-- as a woman-- she wasn’t required to hide her tears, though she buried her face in his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, his own eyes dry as the crowd slowly began to disperse. White blossoms showered down from the trees, and improbably, a large blue butterfly fluttered down to land on a snowdrop. Merlin’s contribution, perhaps? A faint smile had softened the sorcerer’s grief-lined face, though it faded as soon as the gravediggers began to fill in the grave, going about their business quietly, like they knew what affect their actions had on the mourners. 

When, finally, the crowd had thinned and the knights could stop fending off nobles who ‘just wanted a moment to speak with the king’, Arthur squeezed Guinevere’s hand and touched Merlin on the shoulder. “Are you ready to go?” he asked quietly. 

“No,” Merlin whispered. “But we can’t stay here forever, can we?”

“No, we can’t,” Arthur agreed quietly. There was the promise of rain in the air and the funeral dinner waiting for them in the great hall. There was the business of the kingdom to see to, and the mundane details of life to live.

“I wish…” Merlin sighed and left the rest of his thought unspoken. What would he have wished for? More time with Gaius? Enough magic to cure his surrogate father of old age? 

‘I wish’. The most hopeful and the saddest words in any tongue. 

“I know,” Arthur replied. He looked back at the grave, his own wishes foremost in his mind. What would Gaius have told them? To get on with life? To never forget the ones they loved and lost, while never forgetting to remember the ones they had? Some blending of those things. Or perhaps something even wiser that Arthur wouldn’t have expected. The old physician had always found a way to upend Arthur’s expectations. “Let’s go,” he said quietly. 

“He would have loved all these flowers,” Guinevere said. She was smiling despite her tears. “We were talking about flowers that day. About the snowdrops and spring. We’ll have to plant flowers for him when the marker is set.” 

“As many flowers as you want,” Arthur said. 

“I wish we’d had more time with him,” she said, her gaze on the grave, now nearly half-full. 

“We all wish that,” Merlin said, and Arthur sensed the unspoken, ‘and we never get what we wish for’. 

“We should go,” Arthur said, putting a note of finality into his voice. The graveyard was nearly empty now, save for the knights charged with keeping the royal couple safe, the gravediggers at the work, and Father Gildas, who looked like he was expending all his strength to keep his mouth shut. He gently ushered Merlin away, unwilling to engage the little monk in a battle of words over Merlin and Niniane. Besides. The sky was growing dark. It was going to rain, as though the mournful mood had cast itself into the air. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


That night, after enduring a supper he didn’t feel like eating filled with too-rich foods and condolences-- some sincere, and some not-- Arthur shed the trappings of kingship and trudged up the long flight of stairs to Gaius’s- no, to  _ Merlin’s  _ chambers. Assuming he wanted to stay there. Perhaps he’d want to move into different rooms where memories wouldn’t be summoned at every turn. 

There was a sliver of light under the door. Merlin was still awake, then. Good. He’d looked so weary at supper. Unless he’d fallen asleep with the lamps still burning.

Arthur knocked, waited for a response. When he hadn’t received one by the count of twenty he opened the door, wondering what he’d find on the other side. 

Merlin was kneeling on the floor, a book open beside him, one finger resting in the middle of a page. He wasn’t reading it, though. His gaze was far away. 

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked. 

He didn’t answer at first, and Arthur swiftly knelt beside him, looking for some injury or sign of sudden illness. Merlin finally stirred. “I dropped his book. He would have complained about that. I expected to hear him, and he wasn’t there. When I walked in, I thought I would see him in his chair. How long before I stop imagining that he’s still here?” Merlin was looking at him like he had answers, his eyes wide as a lost child’s, and brimming with tears. 

Arthur sat back and blew out a breath. Merlin was supposed to be the one with the answers to these questions, not him. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Once in a while, I still walk into the throne room and expect to see my father there. It happens less than it used to, but it still happens. When I think about him… It still hurts, knowing he’s dead. But less as time passes.”

Merlin closed his eyes and hung his head. “I’ve lost so much. You’d think I’d have learned what to expect.” He shuddered, his shaking hand moving to rest atop Arthur’s. “Stay safe. I don’t think I could bear to lose anyone else.”

“I’ll do my best. It’s my duty, as a king, to keep everyone safe.” 

It was quiet for a time, neither of them moving or speaking. Merlin’s touch was cool against Arthur’s hand. Eerily so. He tried not to shiver. But he didn’t move until the sorcerer withdrew his hand to close the book. “Did you want something?” he asked without looking up.

“Yes. Two things.” He glanced around the room with its books and jars and bundles of drying herbs. Gaius’s things filled the space to overflowing. “Do you want to move into different rooms now? A place of your own?”

Merlin looked up at him dully, then around the room. “No, not now. I want to be around his things. Later, maybe.”

“Alright. Second,” Arthur licked his lips, suddenly nervous. “I’m naming you Court Physician in Gaius’s place. It comes with a seat on the council.”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if Merlin had understood what he’d said, for the sorcerer’s gaze remained dull and uncomprehending. Then a flash of some emotion, too quick for Arthur to read, flashed across his face. “No. You should choose Blaise. He’s of your faith. The people will respond better to him.”

“Merlin, look at me,” he said, and waited until Merlin was looking him steadily in the eye. “I don’t want Blaise on my council. He’s a good man and a good healer, but he doesn’t understand Camelot the way you do. He doesn’t understand people the way you do. I don’t want Blaise. I want you by my side, the way you’ve always been.”

His shoulders relaxed a bit. “The nobles won’t be happy.”

Arthur grinned. “They don’t have to be happy about it. The post is mine to fill as I see fit, and there is no one in Camelot more suited to this position than you.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure about that. But if you insist-”

“I do.”

“Then I should do as my king commands,” he said with a wavering smile. 

“Yes, you should. One way or another, I was always going to have my way in this.” Arthur stood and offered Merlin a hand up. “Now come on. We have a future to plan.

**Author's Note:**

> So. It's been a while. My apologies for the very long delay. There was a lot of life and work and travel, and plently of times I didn't think I would ever come back to this story. Other times, I thought about deleting this account altogether. But then someone would send a message about how much they liked the stories, so I would decide to leave it as is. Then last fall, someone lit a fire under me and inspired me to pick it up again, so now after a few delays, several false starts, and many (so many) deleted pages, I have a new story. I may be a little rusty. Please bear with me. Finding Merlin and Arthur and the gang's voices again hasn't been a straightforward process, but I'm getting there. 
> 
> Thanks for waiting for me.


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